LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
IRVINE 


Of 


IS 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

AND 

THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  OLD  AGE 


BY 


WILLIAM   DE    MORGAN 

Ml 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  MADHOUSE,"  "JOSEPH  VANCE,'* 
"  ALICE-FOR-SHORT, "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


t»  <hiton  &  BoStn   Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

THIS  novel  was  unhappily  left  unfinished  at  the  time  of  my 
husband's  death.  His  intention  had  been  that  all  the  incidents 
of  the  story  should  be  presented  to  the  reader  in  the  narrative  of 
Eustace  John.  As  he  did  not  live  to  carry  out  this  idea  I  have 
been  forced  to  supply  a  short  setting  of  my  own  to  make  what  ho 
had  written  intelligible.  This  I  have  termed  "  The  Story "  as 
distinct  from  the  "  Narrative  of  Eustace  John."  which  is  left 
exactly  as  he  wrote  it.  I  have  endeavoured  merely  to  construct  a 
framework  founded  on  what  I  knew  to  be  his  general  idea  in 
writing  the  book,  and  to  obtrude  it  as  little  as  possible  on  the 
reader. 

EVELYN  DE  MORGAN. 

127  CHUBCH  ST.,  CHELSEA. 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  GAVE  my  Self  up,  as  a  bad  job,  long  ago.  By  a  bad  job,  I  mean 
an  insoluble  problem.  I  have  asked  my  Self  to  explain  itself  for 
sixty  years  at  least — maybe  more — and  have  never  got  a  satisfactory 
answer. 

Personally,  I  am  unable  to  explain  my  Self.  The  most  I  can 
achieve  is  a  poor  make-believe  that  I  can  get  away  from  it  at  arm's 
length — far  enough  at  any  rate  to  walk  round  it  and  note  its 
outward  seeming.  The  result  is  an  image  in  my  mind  of  an  old 
man  who  is  tired,  and  wants  to  stop.  Not  to  stop  writing,  mind 
you!  not  to  stop  any  particular  thing — but  to  stop  altogether. 

Because  then,  you  see,  he  would  be  on  all  fours  with  every  non- 
existent person  in  the  Universe.  And  think  of  the  improvement 
in  his  position !  No  pain  at  all ! — think  what  that  would  mean  to 
his  joints,  which  are  arthritic.  No  eyesight  at  all! — think  what 
that  would  mean  to  eyes  that  see  nothing  they  welcome.  No 
memory  at  all! — and  what  a  gain  that  would  be,  seeing  that  all 
that  was  sweet  in  the  Past  serves  now  only  to  add  bitterness  to  the 
Present,  and  all  that  was  bitter  defies  oblivion,  and  lives  to  sting 
in  all  its  freshness,  as  though  no  yesterdays  had  come  between. 
How  much  better,  he  thinks,  to  have  done  with  it  all,  and  be  no 
worse  off  than  the  countless  myriads  that  have  never  been  born. 
Provided  always  his  extinction  were  complete  and  guaranteed:  no 
treachery  on  the  part  of  Nonentity  towards  a  tired  unit  in  an 
infinite  void,  a  Creation  that  has  had,  for  him,  so  little  purpose, 
a  Creation  whose  benefits,  if  they  exist,  he  grudges  to  no  survivor. 

Do  not  suppose  I  have  not  reasoned  with  my  Self — pointed  out 
that  this  longing  to  cease  is  at  least  irreligious,  if  not  illogical. 
Indeed,  I  have  gone  further,  and  assured  it  that  its  non-existence 
is,  to  itself,  a  thing  quite  inconceivable,  although  my  higher 
reasoning  powers  have  enabled  me  to  perceive  its  possibility. 

I  have  told  my  Self  this  plain  truth,  but  it  still  remains,  as  at 
first,  a  thing  unintelligible,  saying  it  knows  nothing  of  what  is 
not  conceivable,  has  only  a  simple  wish — namely,  to  be  no  worse  off 
than  my  elder  brother;  my  brother  who  has  never  bad  a  heartache 
nor  a  toothache.  How  could  he,  seeing  I  am  the  only  son  of  my 

1 


2  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

parents?  For  there  is  no  safeguard  against  pain,  that  non- 
existence  cannot  give  points  to,  and  win. 

Can  I  blame  my  Self?  Am  I  the  person  to  do  it?  Certainly 
not  for  being  unintelligible,  for  am  I  intelligible?  Are  you  pre- 
pared to  say  you  understand  me?  Shall  I  believe  you,  if  you  do, 
seeing  that  by  my  own  admission  I  do  not  understand  my  Self? 

Yet,  though  I  do  not,  and  though,  as  I  began  by  saying,  I 
have  given  my  Self  up  as  a  bad  job  long  ago,  I  often  ask  it 
questions.  I  have  asked  it  more  than  once  lately,  what  can  I  find 
for  it  to  do,  that  will  keep  it  quiet  and  prevent  it  worrying  me? 
For  it  is  not  I  that  always  worry  it,  whatever  the  conventions  of 
speech  may  suggest  to  the  contrary.  And  if  the  answers  I  have 
received  only  entrap  me  into  a  painful  task,  that  I  shall  fling 
aside  not  long  hence  incomplete,  I  have  only  my  Self  to  blame  for 
it;  For  I  have  consulted  no  one  else,  and  have  no  intention  of 
doing  so. 

I  have  questioned  my  Self  further  about  this  task — no  less  a 
one  than  the  jotting  down  of  all  the  memories  of  my  lifetime. 
I  have  asked  it  how  far  I  dare  to  do  this — going  back  on  all  my 
buried  memories:  dwelling  again  on  so  many  half -forgotten 
passages  of  our  joint  lives,  so  many  I  would  gladly  forget  outright. 
I  have  said  to  it,  "  Can  I — can  we — speak  our  thoughts  aloud, 
although  none  other  hears  our  speech,  of  all  we  now  know  to  have 
been  folly,  or  worse?  Can  I  confess  to  you  my  shame  or  remorse 
for  a  hundred  blots  on  the  page  of  life  that  never  would  hare 
soiled  it  had  the  writer's  hand  held  a  less  uncertain  pen?  Can  I, 
above  all,  write  truth  about  the  faults  of  those  I  loved  in  their 
despite? 

The  answer  to  this  question  has  been  that  it  doesn't  matter, 
that  they  are  all  dead  and  gone,  long  ago,  and  will  never  know 
anything  about  it.  And  this  has  been  followed  by  an  intimation 
to  me  not  to  make  a  fuss  about  nothing. 

But  is  it  nothing?  That's  the  question.  What's  the  answer? 
Will  they, — do  they — of  necessity,  know  nothing  about  it?  I 
cannot  help  admitting  to  my  Self  that  I  am  far  from  cock-sure  on 
the  point;  conceding  to  cocks  their  proverbial  amount  of  prophetic 
certainty.  However,  no  one  will  ever  know  what  I  write — that's 
one  comfort!  And  surely  I  may  be  allowed  to  amuse  my  Self. 
Consider  how  dull  are  the  hours  it  has  to  pass;  think  what  a  total 
theirs  may  be  before  the  last,  last,  last  one  comes  with  the  order 
of  release!  Some  septuagenarians  are  incorrigible — they  drag  on  to 
eighty — ninety — get  into  their  teens  again  sometimes — their  second 
teens. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  3 

Anyhow,  I  can't  restrain  my  Self.  It  will  have  me  write  down 
all  we  can  recollect,  between  us.  Surely  if  T  am  to  employ  my  Self 
at  all,  I  may  as  well  do  it  in  a  way  that  will  make  the  employee 
happy  and  keep  him  amused.  All  benevolent  taskmasters  do  this, 
to  the  best  of  their  ability. 

When  I  turn  to,  seriously,  to  examine  my  Self  about  its  share 
in  our  joint  recollections,  it  is  not  with  any  idea  that  it  will  add 
to  my  own.  It  may  confirm,  them.  I  doubt  my  having  to  con- 
tradict it. 

What  is  my  earliest  recollection?  A  many  of  us  have  asked  their 
Selves  this  question  and  got  no  answer  worth  calling'  one.  Mine 
answers  me,  and  we  are  both  of  a  mind. 

It  is  of  the  Nursery  in  Mecklenburg  Square.  .  .  .  What 
nursery? — did  I  understand  you  to  ask?  My  nursery,  of  course! 
What  other  nursery  was  there  ever  in  Mecklenburg  Square?  .  .  . 
and  the  day  the  Sweep  came  in  the  afternoon.  Actually  in  the 
afternoon — why,  Heaven  knows !  The  clue  is  lost — irrevocable. 
But  there  he  was,  black  and  terrifying,  in  broad  daylight  instead 
of  coming  clandestinely  before  dawn — official  dawn — and  piercing 
strong-lunged  into  the  heart  of  unsuspicious  dreams  with  the  wail 
of  a  lost  soul.  And  there  was  I,  very  small,  and  four  or  there- 
abouts; I  my  Self,  that  have  survived  to  write  this  now,  or  I  could 
not  have  seen  what  happened,  and  remembered  it  through  a  lifetime. 

And  I  do  remember  it  plainly,  believe  what  you  may!  The 
kneeling  Sweep  brings  his  brush  down  the  chimney — it  was  up  as 
my  memory  took  form — discarding  rod  after  rod  as  each  comes 
from  under  a  soot-curbing  petticoat  forethought  has  clothed  the 
grate  with.  He  comes  to  the  critical  moment  that  is  to  bring 
his  brush  back  into  Society,  and  suppresses  the  petticoat,  with 
caution.  Then,  out  comes  the  brush,  and  upon  it — it  is  true,  this 
that  I  tell  you;  honour  bright! — is  a  sweet  white  pigeon,  very  little 
soiled  by  its  journey  through  the  soot.  And  the  last  my  memory 
sees  is  the  black  Sweep — oh,  how  black  he  was! — caressing  the  white 
bird  as  he  kneels  before  the  grate;  and,  as  I  infer  now,  open- 
mouthed  with  astonishment.  Else  how  come  I  to  retain  so  rivid 
an  image  of  a  very  red  tongue  in  the  middle  of  a  very  black  face? 
There  my  memory's  eyesight  fails  and  sees  no  more.  But  I  know 
I  saw  it,  and  have  described  it  truly,  though  I  was  four.  And 
the  reason  I  know  I  was  four  is  that  when  in  later  years  I  recalled 
the  incident.  I  was  told  I  must  be  telling  stories,  because  T  was 
only  four  when  the  event — honourably  acknowledged — came  about, 
and  I  could  not  possibly  recollect  it.  But  I  knew  better. 

I  may  remember  something  else  as  early,  but  I  cannot  prove  the 


4  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

date.  Unless  indeed  it  is  a  confectioner's  shop  with  a  bride-cake 
of  some  pretensions  in  the  window,  which  my  sisters  and  I  were 
allowed  for  a  treat  to  gaze  at  when  we  were  taken  out,  to  bowl 
our  hoops  under  tyrannical  restrictions.  This  cake  held  me  with  a 
cruel  fascination,  not  as  a  cake  to  be  cut — that  would  have  been 
blasphemy — but  as  a  type  of  Oriental  splendour,  The  Court  of 
Tamerlane,  anything  of  that  sort!  When  in  later  years  I  learned 
"  Ye  Mariners  of  England  "  by  heart,  I  found  that,  in  connection 
with  the  meteor-flag  that  would  yet  terrific  burn,  my  mind  dwelt 
with  satisfaction  on  the  tin  flag  stuck  in  it.  But  it  is  nothing  in 
the  nature  of  its  enchantments  that  enables  me  to  fix  the  period  of 
life  when  I  came  under  this  cake's  spell.  It  is  the  railing  the 
shop  stood  back  from,  the  top  bar  of  which  I  was  not  to  climb 
up  to  and  suck;  or  Varnish,  my  nurse,  would  tell  my  mar.  It  was 
above  the  level  of  my  mouth — I  can  remember  the  taste  fairly 
well — and  I  must  have  been  full  small,  to  be  unable  to  enjoy  it 
on  the  level  of  the  pavement. 

Was  Varnish  really  my  nurse's  name?  I  have  accepted  it  as 
such  all  my  life,  but  now  I  come  to  write  it,  I  must  make  the 
reservation  that  I  do  not  believe  it  can  have  been  her  name,  or 
anybody's.  I  shall  never  know  now  what  her  name  really  was; 
it  is  all  so  long  ago.  I  do  not  even  know,  and  I  only  puzzle  myself 
by  speculating,  whether  she  was  christened  Varnish,  or  whether 
it  was  the  name  of  her  family. 

I  have  often  tried,  by  the  light  of  much  subsequent  experience 
of  the  genesis  of  the  human  domestic,  to  figure  to  myself  the  terms 
on  which  Varnish  came  to  be  the  power  she  was  in  my  family 
circle.  I  have  forced  myself  mechanically  to  grapple  with  the 
conception  of  her  as  a  candidate  for  a  nurse's  place,  going  through 
prescribed  formulas,  producing  written  characters,  failing  to  con- 
vince with  them,  being  spoken  for  by  a  lady  in  a  suburb  previously 
unknown  to  man,  having  her  relations  with  alcohol  canvassed 
without  disguise,  and  her  attitude  towards  the  opposite  sex  safely 
defined;  her  honesty  in  money  matters  and  truthfulness  of  speech 
candidly  discussed  and  her  seeming  satisfactory  so  far,  and,  finally, 
her  coming  for  a  month  on  trial  and  giving  satisfaction;  all  these 
conditions  I  have  endeavoured  to  imagine  Varnish  into,  and  hare 
failed  utterly.  She  still  presents  herself  to  me  as  a  Power  in 
Nature,  with  a  bone  in  her  stays,  combining  Omnipotence  with 
a  mysterious  liability  to  come  unpinned,  and  reinstating  her  posi- 
tion with  pins  produced  from  a  recess  in  her  mouth.  To  a  youth- 
ful mind  awaiting  Theism,  but  taught  to  say  prayers  provisionally, 
she  was  not  without  her  uses;  filling  out  a  void  in  which,  other- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  5 

wise,  irreverent  speculations  might  have  germinated.  But  as  to  her 
having  ever  gone  to  a  registry-office  and  sought  domestic  employ- 
ment, that  seems  even  now  to  my  inner  soul  impossible,  for  all 
that  reason  and  subsequent  experience  have  taught  me. 

Why  Varnish  used  threats  to  tell  my  mar,  in  order  to  influence 
me,  I  can't  say.  It  was  a  case  of  a  weak  Ministry  and  a  strong 
Executive,  I  suppose;  the  latter  metaphorically  brandishing  the 
former  over  the  heads  of  malefactors,  as  the  only  type  of  abstract 
authority  available.  I  was  too  young  to  analyze;  so  I  accepted  the 
confidence  of  her  denunciations  as  a  sign  that  they  were  well 
grounded,  and  asked  no  questions  as  to  the  form  the  Action  of  the 
Government  would  take.  Varnish  must  often  have  felt  very 
grateful  to  me  for  stopping  crime  short  of  forcing  her  to  carry 
out  her  threats  and  exposing  their  impotence.  No  doubt  she 
breathed  freer  when  concession  on  my  part  enabled  her  to  dwell 
on  my  good  fortune  in  escaping  some  form  of  torture  undefined, 
which  a  retributive  mother  would  certainly  have  resorted  to, 
though  Varnish's  own  tender  soul  shrank  from  thumbscrews  or 
the  rack.  "  But  just  let  me  find  you  put  the  butter  in  the  slop-basin 
again,"  said  she,  "  and  see  if  I  don't  acquaint  your  mar !  Such 
goings  on  I  never !  " 

I  should  not  like  to  say  that  my  mother  was  not  fond  of  me, 
but  I  am  convinced  there  was  a  coolness  between  us,  dating  from 
my  entry  into  this  world,  for  which  I  think  she  should  not  have 
held  me  responsible.  Varnish  no  doubt  handled  this  estrangement 
— used  it  as  a  lever  to  coerce  me  into  moral  courses.  Her  action 
produced  two  false  impressions  on  me;  one  that  my  mother  was 
a  strong  character,  the  other  that  my  father  was  a  weak  one.  His 
ostentatious  exclusion  from  a  seat  on  the  Bench  beside  my  mother 
could  only  have  one  effect,  even  if  unendorsed  by  running  com- 
mentary on  his  demeanour  as  a  parent,  which  I  suppose  Varnish 
never  meant  to  reach  my  understanding.  Or  rather,  she  made  her 
assumption  that  it  could  not  do  so  a  pivot  for  her  conscience  to 
turn  its  back  upon  me  with,  and  say  whatever  it  liked  to  Space, 
whose  sympathies  she  seemed  to  take  for  granted.  But  a  sharp 
little  boy  of  five  or  six  is  sometimes  hideously  sharp  about  what- 
ever touches  his  own  interests,  and  when  Varnish  said  to  Space 
that  my  father  set  her  off  wonderin'.  he  did,  and  what  that  child 
would  do  next  she  couldn't  imagine! — that  being  her  style,  whjch  I 
can't  help — her  saying  so  made  me  alive  to  the  fact  that  I  had  a 
friend  at  court,  under  whose  jegis  I  might  defy  the  authorities.  In 
this  case  he  had,  to  the  best  of  my  dim  recollection,  countenanced 
and  encouraged  me  in  retiring  under  the  Wash,  or  more  properly 


6  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

under  the  miscellanea  which  were  yearning  for  the  Wash,  in  the 
basement  of  a  cupboard  named  The  Dirty  Close,  or  Clothes;  it  hav- 
ing acquired,  by  a  retroversion  of  language,  the  name  of  its  con- 
tents. Once  concealed,  every  addendum  from  the  sorted  heaps  on 
the  floor  which  I  had  not  been  permitted  to  roll  in,  improved  my 
position  of  security,  while  it  increased  my  risks  of  suffocation.  I 
was  saved,  to  become  an  object  of  opprobrium  to  all  but  my  father, 
who  laughed.  But  such  like  incidents  as  this  built  up  a  reputation 
for  him  in  my  eyes — a  reputation  of  sympathy  with  revolution — 
although  it  did  not  convince  me  that  he  could  be  relied  on  at  a 
crisis.  Varnish's  habit  of  soliloquy  was  responsible  for  this,  as  it 
was  for  the  groundless  belief  in  my  mother's  strength  of  character. 

I  was  very  young  then,  Had  it  dawned  upon  me,  I  wonder,  that 
my  father  was  in  Somerset  House?  If  not,  it  must  have  done  so 
very  soon  after,  for  I  knew  it  at  six  years  old;  seeing  that  I 
remember  telling  a  neighbour  of  it,  as  a  fundamental  truth  of 
nature  that  could  make  shift  for  itself  without  meaning  anything 
intelligible.  For  I  had  not  the  remotest  idea  what  Somerset  House 
was,  nor  what  my  father  did  there.  I  am  not  much  clearer  now, 
on  this  latter  point.  But  I  have  known  all  my  life,  and  I  told  that 
little  girl  clearly,  with  some  sense  of  reflected  glory,  that  my  father 
was  in  Somerset  House,  past  all  question.  She  did  not  seem  im- 
pressed, merely  inquiring  of  me  whether  I  was  a  little  boy  or  a 
little  girl.  Her  name  was  Ada  Fraser,  and  she  lived  in  the  house 
with  the  red  blinds,  right  across  the  Square.  Why  do  I  feel  now, 
at  a  distance  of  sixty-five  years,  that  if  you,  my  reader,  do  not 
know  which  the  house  with  the  red  blinds  was,  your  ignorance 
argues  yourself  unknown  ?  Why — Europe  knew  it ! 

By  the  time  I  was  six  years  old — the  time  at  which  my  memories 
begin  to  solidify — I  not  only  knew  that  my  father  was  in  Somerset 
House,  but  that  his  salary  was  too  small.  I  did  not  know  then 
that  this  piece  of  knowledge  is  common  to  all  mankind  about  its 
own  salary  and  that  of  its  belongings.  It  remains  true  in  spite  of 
periodical  rises.  Even  so  the  path  in  which  a  serpent  moves  is  an 
unvarying  mathematical  curve,  while  the  snake  himself  constantly 
advances,  like  the  salary. 

I  cannot  say  I  ever  heard  my  father  complain  that  his  salary  was 
too  small,  but  he  must  have  thought  so,  for,  was  he  not  human? 
I  knew  all  about  it — of  that  I  am  certain — and  felt  indignant,  long 
before  I  knew  what  a  salary  was. 

The  most  vigorous  complaints  of  the  inadequacy  of  this  salary 
came  from  my  mother's  two  younger  brothers,  known  to  me  as 
Uncle  Francis  and  Uncle  Sam.  My  mother's  discussion  of  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  7 

subject  with  my  father,  in  which  she  would  lay  great  stress  on  the 
difficulties  of  housekeeping  for  such  an  immense  family,  in  such 
a  huge  house,  always  ended  with: — "Well,  Nathaniel,  ask  my 
brothers  what  they  think.  All  I  say  is,  ask  my  brothers !  "  On 
which  my  father  would  fume  and  become  irritable,  and  my  mother 
would  sit  with  her  eyes  shut,  and  if  he  became  at  all  demonstrative 
and  independent,  would  have  that  dreadful  faintness  come  over  her 
again,  and  would  tell  my  nurse  or  my  elder  sister  to  give  her  just 
one  spoonful  of  Dr.  Endicott's  mixture — only  one ! — in  a  wine-glass 
of  water  nearly  full  up,  but  not  full  enough  to  spill. 

Uncle  Francis  was  in  the  Inner  Temple — at  least,  that  was  how 
he  was  described  to  me;  and  I  accepted  the  Inner  Temple,  just  as 
I  accepted  Somerset  House.  But  with  a  difference.  I  had,  so  to 
speak,  worshipped  at  the  Inner  Temple's  shrine.  Make  peace  with 
Wordsworth  for  me,  if  ever  you  meet  him  in  the  Unknown.  I  had 
been  more  than  once  taken  to  the  Inner  Temple  by  my  mother; 
and  when  it  rained,  instead  of  being  turned  loose  in  the  garden 
with  my  two  elder  sisters,  while  my  mother  talked  about  an 
important  mystery  called  the  Settlement,  we  were  taken  into  my 
uncle's  chambers  and  allowed  to  overhear  much  conversation  about 
it.  Memory  is  a  funny  thing!  I  remember  this  conversation  quite 
distinctly;  not  its  components,  but  the  fact  of  its  existence.  Other- 
wise, I  can  only  recollect  a  torrent  of  unqualified  jargon  with  a 
fish-leap — suppose  we  call  it — or  an  islet  now  and  again,  to  vary 
its  purposeless  monotony.  As  for  instance  when  my  uncle  inhaled 
snuff — it  vanished  up  his  nostrils  in  two  long  gusts — recrossed  his 
slippers  two  or  three  times,  helped  Chaos  forward  a  little  among  the 
papers  on  his  desk,  and  said  to  my  mother  with  a  raised  voice: — 
"  You  may  talk  till  you're  hoarse,  Csecilia,  but  don't  try  to  convince 
me  that  Nathaniel's  a  Lawyer.  7  know  better.  You  ask  anybody! 
They'll  tell  you  so  at  any  club  in  London."  It  is  odd  that  I 
remember  all  these  words,  for  I  cannot  have  understood  them. 
Witness  the  fact  that  at  the  next  opportunity  I  asked  my  mother 
where  her  horse  was,  and  she  said — no  wonder! — "What  can  the 
strange  child  mean?  Do  make  out,  Varnish!'' 

These  visits  to  my  uncle's  chambers  are  responsible  for  an  im- 
pression that  has  lasted  my  lifetime  up  to  this  moment  of  writing, 
and  that  probably  will  hold  good  to  the  end  of  it.  It  bonds 
together — like  the  items  of  a  Welsh  Triad,  or  the  identities  of  the 
threefold  Hecate — the  atmosphere  of  snuff,  the  noiselessness  of 
slippers,  and  the  solitude  of  Chambers.  I  have  often  endeavoured 
to  break  the  spell  that  holds  these  three  things  together  and  to 
think  of  them  apart.  But  it  remains  just  as  strong  as  ever!  The 


8  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

recollection  of  his  snuff  comes,  as  a  special  flavour,  through  the 
memory  of  the  very  strong  tobacco  smoked  by  Mr.  Tom  Skidney, 
a  great  friend  of  his,  who  was  frequently  in  evidence,  but  un- 
explained. That  of  the  slippers  asserts  itself  through  a  flowered 
silk  dressing-gown  in  which,  as  I  understood,  my  uncle  convey- 
anced.  And  the  belief  that  Man,  in  Chambers,  is  a  sort  of 
Anchorite,  separated  from  his  species,  predominates  over  a  fact 
that  I  perfectly  well  call  to  mind,  that  not  only  Mr.  Skidney  was 
always  there,  with  an  amber  mouthpiece  in  his  lips,  but  also  two 
other  young  men  who  appeared  at  intervals  and  accepted  from  him 
what  I  supposed  to  be  his  cigars.  They  really  were  my  uncle's. 

These  young  men  were  up  in  the  top  set«. — which  is  all  I  ever  knew 
of  them.  But  whatever  they  were,  they  did  not  want  to  have 
anything  conveyanced.  On  the  contrary,  they  themselves  were 
yearning  to  conveyance  the  goods  of  others.  Now  Mr.  Skidney, 
as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  toiled  not,  neither  did  he  conveyance. 
He  resided  in  the  Inner  Temple,  and  he  smoked.  Every  one  of  us 
makes  some  contribution  to  the  sum-total,  of  active  human  life, 
and  that  was  Mr.  Skidney's.  My  uncle  seemed  to  think  that  he 
accounted  for  him,  or  palliated  him,  when  he  said  of  him :  "  Oh — 
yes — little  Kidneys !  He's  all  right — has  some  means  of  his  own." 
But  whatever  his  means  were,  and  whatever  the  ends  to  which  he 
used  them,  neither  he  nor  those  fellows  in  the  top  set  ever  did 
anything  towards  dissipating  the  idea  that  Chambers  meant  loneli- 
ness. I  had  heard  the  words  "  all  by  himself  in  Chambers  "  before 
I  knew  that  words  meant  things;  and  by  the  time  I  had  decided 
on  the  meaning  of  this  combination,  it  had  become  a  fundamental 
fact  in  nature,  like  the  Butcher,  or  the  Baker,  or  the  Dust.  So 
the  snuff,  the  slippers,  and  the  solitude  still  remains  in  my  mind  as 
the  insignia  of  my  Uncle  Francis. 

My  Uncle  Sam  was  a  Civil  Engineer,  and  him  too  I  swallowed 
whole  and  was  content  to  know  nothing  of  the  nature  of  Civil 
Engineering.  To  my  mind  it  merely  presented  itself  as  something 
great — something  outside  and  beyond  daily  life,  mysteriously  actur 
ated  from  the  inmost  heart  of  an  unimpeachable  Office.  Even  so 
Genghis  Khan — or  somebody  like  him ;  I  really  forget — played  with 
armies  on  a  chessboard,  in  miniature,  and  made  it  all  happen  in 
reality,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  while  he  basked  in  the  smiles  of 
beautiful  female  captives,  who  fanned  him  and  gave  him  pome- 
granates. Uncle  Sam  had  no  captives  or  pomegranates.  But  then, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  believe  any  of  the  great  events  at  a  distance 
had  any  parallel  in  his  case.  My  opinion  now  is  that  he  built 
himself  a  certain  reputation  by  sending  in  designs,  and  tendering 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  9 

for  gigantic  jobs  that  were  never  accepted.  Nothing  could  be  more 
impressive  than  the  way  in  which  he  would  ring  a  bell  with  a 
button  on  the  office  table,  and  summoning  his  clerk,  whose  name 
was  Marigold,  would  ask  him  had  we  tendered  for  this  job.  One 
of  my  earliest  images  of  him  shows  him  to  me  throwing  a  letter 
across  the  office  table  to  Mr.  Marigold,  with  this  inquiry.  I  con- 
jecture now  that  his  only  motive  in  doing  so  was  to  impress  my 
mother,  who  was  on  a  visit  to  him  accompanied  by  my  youngest 
sister,  a  little  girl  three  years  my  senior,  and  myself.  I  was 
older  then  by  a  couple  of  years  than  the  infant  I  recollect  being, 
in  the  dirty-linen  cupboard  enduring  suffocation  with  the  low 
motive  of  occasioning  domestic  confusion.  I  was  by  this  time 
taking  shrewd  notice  of  the  world  my  mother  could  have  dispensed 
with  my  presence  in,  and  was  quite  competent  to  understand  her 
conversation  with  my  Uncle  Sam.  They  were  talking  about  my 
father's  salary.  They  generally  did.  And  their  talk  led,  as  always, 
to  a  review  of  my  father's  character. 

"  You — mark — my — words,  Caecilia,"  said  Uncle  Sam,  leaning 
back  in  his  important  office-chair,  which  was  on  castors — one  of  the 
sort  that  pushes  back  suddenly,  unless  you  know,  as  he  did,  how 
to  avoid  it.  He  closed  his  eyes  to  emphasize  an  Oracular  character. 
Also  to  think  of  his  words — because  I  don't  believe  he  had  done  so. 

"I  know!"  said  my  mother  under  her  breath,  with  a  slight 
inclination  of  the  head  in  pre-confirmation  of  the  Oracle.  Not  to 
be  caught  out  by  any  one  else  making  a  bid  for  Omniscience ! 

"  You — mark  my — words !  "  repeated  my  uncle.  "  It's  goin'  to 
be  Sawcrates  over  again.  What  did  I  say  to  Nathaniel  before? 
I  said  Sawcrates,  but  it  doesn't  matter  who.  Any  philosophical 
old  chap.  Any  old  buzzock  in  a  book." 

"  I  know,"  said  my  mother  again.  And  again  she  nodded,  as 
before.  But  she  did  it  with  a  certain  condescension  of  pity,  for 
the  educational  defects  of  younger  brothers.  My  uncle  went  on  to 
develop  and  improve  his  position: 

"Or  Simple  Simon.  Or  Corduroy — Croydon — what's  his  name? 
You  know — you're  up  to  that  sort  of  trap — in  Arcadia 

My  mother  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and  then,  to  her  credit, 
guessed  right.  She  had  read  a  little  of  one  or  two  of  the  Classics, 
and  thought  she  had  read  the  whole  of  most,  as  well  as  a  little  of  all 
the  others.  Corydon  and  Phyllis  was  the  answer  to  the  riddle. 

"  Ah*— and  Fillies !  "  said  Uncle  Sam — who  was  a  good  judge  of 
horse-flesh.  "  Anythin'  in  the  Pastoral  Symphony  line.  Anythin' 
in  books.  But  for  a  Man  of  the  World — to  look  after  his  property 
— put  his  little  capital  out  to  advantage — know  what  to  buy  and 


10  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

when  to  sell — why,  there's  little  Marigold  out  there  would  give 
him  half  the  course,  and  come  in  at  the  winning-post,  as  fresh  as 
fippence."  My  uncle  seemed  discontented  with  this  analogy;  for 
after  thinking  a  few  seconds  with  his  eyes  shut  he  corrected  it  to 
"As  fresh  as  tomorrow  mornin'."  My  mother  appeared  to  submit. 

The  astute  Marigold  had  been  audibly  referring  to  several  folio 
volumes  in  his  private  kennel,  and  now  returned  with  the  negative 
information.  "  No  particulars,  so  far !  "  He  seemed  unwilling 
to  admit  the  existence  of  transactions  his  employer  had  no  hand  in. 
But  he  accepted  "  Very  good — cut  along!  "  as  permission  to  dismiss 
the  subject,  and  did  it  without  emotion. 

My  uncle,  disturbed  for  the  moment  in  his  homily,  reclosed  his 
eyes  to  continue  it,  with  the  words  "  Let's  see ! — what  was  I  sayin'  ? 
.  .  .  oh,  ah — your  husband,  Csecilia !  There's  a  man  now ! — 
could  have  put  down  his  ten  thousand  pounds  at  this  moment,  and 
very  little  the  worse  for  it.  if  he'd  only  have  listened.  But  that's 
where  it  was — he  wouldn't  listen !  " 

My  mother  shook  her  head  over  my  father,  sympathetically.  "  If 
he  had  only  paid  attention  to  you,  Samuel,"  said  she.  "  Or  to 
Francis." 

But  Uncle  Sam  could  only  give  a  qualified  countenance  to  Uncle 
Francis.  "  Barristers  are  middlin',"  said  he.  "  But  they  ain't 
always  practical  men.  Such  a  man  as  Dale  Smith  now!  Why — 
I  could  have  asked  Nathaniel  to  meet  him  at  dinner,  times  out  of 
mind.  Or  Tracey  'Awkins — ask  'em  about  him  in  the  City — see 
what  they1}}  say !  Or  Sparrer  Jenkins,  porter-bottlin'  man !  Any 
man  of  that  sort.  They're  your  sort.  Nothin'  sentimental  about 
them.  But  it's  no  use  talking  to  Nathaniel — you  know  'im, 
Caecilia."  My  uncle  spoke  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself,  as  though 
he  were  falling  asleep  though  intelligent,  and  was  too  lazy  to  pick 
up  an  H  he  had  dropped  of  set  purpose. 

I  need  not  say  that  much  of  what  I  write  may  be  referred  to 
later  experience.  But  I  really  was  taking  in  a  great  deal  of  what 
I  saw,  considering  my  years,  I  am  puzzled  myself  at  my  own  range 
and  strength  of  recollection. 

Looking  back  now,  from  my  present  standing  point  of  experience, 
I  cannot  the  least  understand  on  what  grounds  these  two  uncles 
of  mine  claimed  a  worldly  sagacity  superior  to  my  father.  They 
were  considerably  his  juniors;  but  that  I  then  looked  on,  at  my 
mother's  suggestion  I  fancy,  as  an  advantage  on  their  side.  This 
was  not  only  because  the  intelligence  of  their  youth  was  crisper, 
my  father  being  several  years  their  senior,  but  because  monetary 
success  is  more  convincing  in  the  young,  who  manifestly  must  be 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  11 

practical  men,  up  to  the  ways  of  the  world, — able  to  cheat  you  if 
they  choose,  but  restrained  from  doing  so  by  the  inexpediency  of 
fraud — if  they  have  already  begun  to  fill  their  own  coffers. 
Whereas  the  coffer-fillings  of  middle-life  and  old  age  may  be  the 
result  of  mere  dull  industry,  and  something  may  actually  have 
been  given  in  exchange  for  them.  But  then,  as  well  as  being 
younger,  my  uncles'  educations  ought  (as  I  now  think)  to  have 
caused  my  mother  to  pause  in  her  decision  as  between  her  brothers 
and  her  husband,  that  the  latter  was  always  wrong.  They  did  not, 
rather  the  contrary!  My  fathers  very  respectable  career  at  Cam- 
bridge was  engineered — not  very  civilly — to  his  disadvantage,  and  it 
was  impressed  on  my  infant  mind  that  the  Mathematics,  towards 
which  he  had  had  a  leaning  from  boyhood,  crippled  the  Student 
for  the  race  in  Life,  and  fostered  a  certain  character  difficult  to 
define,  owing  to  the  variety  of  its  constituents,  but  fatal  to  the 
shrewdness  that  qualifies  for  worldly  success.  For  it  seemed  that 
they — and  the  Classics  also — tended  to  produce  Shepherds,  Philoso- 
phers, and  Parsons,  but  not  Men  of  the  World. 

I  am  convinced  now  that  my  uncles'  function,  in  the  predestined 
order  of  events,  was  that  of  irritants.  Their  scheme,  if  they  had 
one,  was  to  goad  my  father  to  action,  with  a  view  to  "  making 
money,"  somehow,  but  it  kept  cautiously  clear  of  indicating  definite 
courses.  There  was,  however,  one  thing  they  were  agreed  about — 
that  the  first  step  for  him  to  take  was  to  give  up  Somerset  House. 
That  house  was  to  them  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull,  and  they  denounced 
it  until  my  mother  came  to  identify  it  with  Poverty,  and  pictured  it 
to  herself  as  a  huge  obstacle  standing  between  my  father  and  some 
source  of  gold  undefined,  preferably  in  the  City. 

"  You  will  never  get  on,  Nathaniel,"  she  would  say,  after  stimulus 
from  her  brothers.  "  You  will  never  get  on,  until  you  give  up 
Somerset  House.  My  brothers  both  say  so.  And  Samuel  men- 
tioned more  than  one  gentleman  whose  name  is  well  known  in  the 
City,  who  said  so  too." 

My  memory  supplies  definitely,  in  one  case  of  speech  to  this 
effect,  an  image  of  my  father  saying  rather  superciliously:  "And 
what  was  the  gentleman's  name  that  was  well  known  in  the  City, 
who  said  so  too  ?  " 

My  mother  laid  Nicholas  Nickleby  down  in  her  lap,  and  folded 
her  hands  over  him.  to  say  fixedly  i — "It's  no  use  my  telling  you, 
Nathaniel.  You  will  only  sneer." 

My  father  replied.  "  Oh  no ! — we  won't  sneer  at  the  name  of  the 
gentleman  that's  well  known  in  the  City — will  we,  Eustace  John? 
Out  with  it.  Csecilia !  "  Eustace  John  was  the  present  writer. 


12  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

My  mother  closed  her  eyes  to  reply,  "  Mr.  Sparrow  Jenkins.  But 
I  could  name  others."  Her  manner  said : — "  I  will  now  await  your 
paroxysm  of  scorn.  But  Truth  will  survive." 

It  certainly  does  seem  to  me  now,  if  I  remember  the  interview 
rightly,  that  my  father  did  express  a  certain  amount  of  disparage- 
ment of  the  gentleman  so  well  known  in  the  City.  For  what  he  said 
was : — "  Mr.  Sparrow  Jenkins ! — Mr.  Griggs  Jenkins ! — Mr.  Dobble- 
boy  Jenkins!!! — What  does  he  know  about  me?  What  does  he 
know  about  Somerset  House  ? " 

My  mother  nodded,  slowly,  expressing  patience,  toleration,  inward 
knowledge  with  disclosure  in  due  course  at  a  time  well-chosen. 
But  for  the  moment  she  said  only : — "  Mr.  Sparrow  Jenkins, 
Nathaniel,  knows  enough  to  know  that  the  sooner  you  quit  Somerset 
House,  the  better  for  your  family." 

"  Oho — that's  it,  is  it !  "  said  my  father.  "  He's  a  nice  young 
man  for  a  small  tea  party.  Come  here,  Eustace  John  .  .  .  yes 
— sit  a-horseback  on  my  foot."  I  did  so,  lending  myself  willingly 
to  a  performance  I  enjoyed,  and  a  fiction  that  I  was  a  cavalry 
officer.  It  was  dramatically  unsound,  for  no  cavalry  officer  ever 
takes  hold  of  two  human  hands  to  keep  him  in  his  saddle.  My 
father's  held  mine,  and  I  knotted  my  legs  together  securely  under 
his  foot,  having  no  stirrups,  as  he  continued : — "  What's  the  name 
of  the  gentleman? — Mr.  Dobbleboy  Jenkins?  Yes,  you  say  it, 
Eustace  John !  And  mind  you  say  it  right,  or  the  horse  shan't  go 
on."  I  said  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  and  the  horse  went  on, 
gently  ambled,  while  my  father  continued : — "  Yes,  Mr.  Dobbleboy 
Jenkins.  Well,  Eustace  John,  suppose  we  take  Mr.  Dobbleboy 
Jenkins's  advice,  and  quit  Somerset  House,  where's  the  bread- 
and-butter  to  come  from  meanwhile  ? "  The  horse  broke  into  a 
gallop  across  country,  causing  its  rider  to  laugh  convulsively  in 
a  very  unsoldierlike  way,  but  leaving  his  mind  free  to  form  a 
false  image  of  Somerset  House  as  a  source  of  bread-and-butter — 
not  metaphorically,  nor  even  independently  of  each  other,  but 
incorporated  in  slices,  or  fingers  and  thumbs. 

How  many  a  time  have  I  said  to  myself,  in  after  life,  "  Just  like 
Uncle  Sam,"  when  I  have  heard  it  suggested  that  the  surest  way 
to  the  next  rung  of  the  ladder  is  to  kick  away  the  foothold  under- 
neath! And  yet — the  pleasure  of  it!  If  one  could  only  have, 
morally,  a  moist  Turkish  bath  and  a  splendid  cold  plunge,  have 
one's  hair  cut  and  find  a  new  suit  of  clothes  in  the  dressing-room! 
.  .  .  yes! — and  the  past  forgotten  and  Hope  ahead;  throw  that 
in!  I  suppose  my  father's  taste  for  running  after  Jack-o'-Lan- 
thorns  had  never  developed.  To  the  best  of  my  belief — at  this  time 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  13 

at  any  rate — no  suggestion  of  any  new  career  for  him  after  quitting 
Somerset  House  had  ever  been  made. 

My  mother  left  Nicholas  Niclcleby  on  her  lap,  with  his  face 
down  and  her  hands  on  his  back,  and  waited  for  the  ride  to  come 
to  an  end.  It  did,  in  time;  my  father  saying  as  he  released  his 
foot  from  my  prehensile  legs :  "  There,  that's  enough  for  any  young 
scaramouch,  in  all  conscience."  I  thought  not,  but  waived  the 
point. 

My  mother  then  resumed : — "  Mr  Sparrow  Jenkins,  Nathaniel — 
but  this  I  believe  you  perfectly  well  know — is  not  a  person  such  as 
you  may  make  me  ridiculous  before  the  child.  ..."  She  paused, 
in  a  difficulty  with  grammatical  structure,  but  too  proud  to 
acknowledge  it. 

My  father  offered  help,  saying  fluently : — "  Not  a  legitimate 
object  of  ridicule  for  the  benefit  of  Eustace  John.  I  see.  .  .  . 
Yes — go  on." 

My  mother  went  on,  f  reezingly : — "  You  need  not  interrupt  me, 
Nathaniel.  What  I  said  was  perfectly  intelligible.  And  Mr. 
Sparrow  Jenkins, — although  you  think  it  humorous  to  pervert  his 
name — is  not  the  only  person  of  influence  that  believes  you  have 
great  possibilities.  But  all  are  agreed  on  one  thing — not  Somerset 
House!" 

"  Several  things  are  not  Somerset  House,"  said  my  father.  "  I 
could  give  instances.  I  admit,  however,  that  the  abstract  idea  '  not 
Somerset  House'  has  a  certain  unity." 

"  Now  you  are  talking  nonsense,  Nathaniel.  I  believe  Varnish 
is  right,  and  that  sometimes  you  are  not  responsible.  Would  you 
ring  that  bell,  please  ?  Eustace  John  had  better  go  to  the  nursery. 
She  has  done  my  lace  on  the  Italian  iron  by  now,  and  he's  spoiling 
the  carpet." 

"Why  is  Eustace  John  to  go  to  the  nursery?" 

"  Manage  the  house  yourself !  "  said  my  mother,  severely.  She 
contrived  to  clothe  a  resumption  of  Nicholas  NicTcleby  with  an 
appearance  of  abdication.  I  don't  believe  now — whatever  I  be- 
lieved then — that  she  read  a  single  word  of  it. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  if  what  I  picture  to  myself  as  succeeding 
this  is  a  true  memory  of  what  happened,  or  a  superstructure  of 
inferences,  based  on  knowledge  acquired  later  of  my  father's  and 
mother's  characteristics.  If  it  is  the  former,  I  think  I  may  lay 
claim  to  be  the  son  of  the  most  inconsequent  mother  of  whom  a 
record  has  survived. 

For  in  reply  to  a  remark — not  an  ill-humoured  one — of  my 
father's  as  he  rang  the  bell,  "  You're  a  nice  couple,  you  and 


14  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Varnish!  So,  I'm  not  responsible — is  that  it?  Very  good!"  she 
merely  said,  affecting  reabsorption  in  Nicholas  NicTcleby,  "  Can  you 
wonder,  Nathaniel  ? "  A  pause  followed,  during  which  I  waited  to 
hear  my  father  answer  the  question.  I  was  naturally  anxious  to 
know  whether  he  could  or  couldn't  answer.  But  no  response  came. 
My  mother  said : — "  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  am  referring 
to,  Nathaniel."  And  another  pause  followed,  a  longer  one,  at  the 
end  of  which  my  father  saidj — "No,  I  don't." 

My  mother  then,  putting  Nicholas  Nickleby  finally  aside,  seemed 
to  step  frankly  forward  into  the  arena  of  argument,  as  one  com- 
pelled to  speak.  "  Whatever,"  she  said,  "  may  be  the  views  you 
profess  to  hold  about  my  brothers;  however  much  you  may  despise 
them  and  set  aside  their  experience;  whether  or  not  you  disregard 
.the  advice  of  their  friends,  Men  of  the  "World  and  qualified  to 
speak;  whether  you  think  your  wife  a  fool  or  not — of  which  I 
say  nothing.  .  .  .  Oh  yes ! — you  may  say : — '  Get  along,'  Nathan- 
iel. ...  I  do  say  this,  and  I  always  shall  say,  that  nothing  can 
justify  your  attitude  about  my  grandfather's  boxes  in  the  lumber- 
room." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  those  blessed  boxes,"  said  my  father,  to 
himself  no  doubt,  but  not  inaudibly. 

"What's  that  you  said?"  asked  my  mother,  with  spirit. 

"  I  said  *  I  thought  it  would  be  those  blessed  boxes.'  I  under- 
stand that  it  was.  What's  the  next  article  ?  " 

"Do  not  evade  my  question,  Nathaniel,  but  answer  it.  Are 
you  prepared  to  justify  your  attitude  about  what  you  are  pleased 
to  call  '  those  blessed  boxes  ? '  Ring  the  bell  again,  hard !  Varnish 
is  an  enormous  time." 

"  My  attitude  being  .  .  .  ? "  My  father  had  rung  the  bell 
hard  and  looked  round  to  ask  this  question.  His  retention  of  the 
handle  seemed  to  imply  that  he  would  not  come  off  it  till  he  was 
told  about  his  attitude.  So  my  mother  had  to  tell  him. 

"  Do  not  equivocate,  Nathaniel.  You  know  my  meaning.  For 
years  you  have  opposed  the  examination  of  those  boxes,  and  you 
are  perfectly  aware  that  their  contents  might  prove  both  valuable 
and  interesting.  ..." 

"Very  likely!" 

"  Then  why  place  obstacles  in  the  way  of  their  examination  ? 
I  wonder  what  Varnish  is  about." 

"  Who's  placing  obstacles? "  said  my  father. 

"  That  is  uncandid,  Nathaniel.     I  shall  not  answer  you." 

"  All  7  ever  said  was — don't  expect  me  to  do  it.  They're  inches 
.thick  in  dust,  and  nailed  down." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  15 

"  My  dear  Nathaniel,  is  it  likely  I  should  ask  you  to  do  it  ?  Have 
I  not  said,  all  along,  that  it  is  a  job  for  a  Man,  by  the  day?" 
Then  feeling  that  it  might  be  put  on  a  safer  footing  of  economy, 
she  added: — "Or  at  so  much  an  hour.  But  beer  on  no  account." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  my  father.  "  There  you  are !  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  tell  your  man  to  get  the  lids  off,  and  then  we 
can  see  what's  in  'em.  Only,  he  must  be  sober." 

"  You  always  leave  everything  to  me,"  said  my  mother,  uncom- 
plainingly— how  well  one  knows  that  manner  of  speech  ?  "  Varnish, 
what  made  you  so  long?"  She  did  not  wait  for  Varnish  to  add 
to  an  indication  of  her  line  of  defence,  that  she  came  the  very 
minute  the  bell  rang,  but  told  her  to  never  mind  now!  Was  to- 
morrow The  Man's  day  ?  It  appeared  so.  Could  he  be  trusted  to 
open  those  boxes  in  the  lumber-room?  Not  with  nobody  there, 
Varnish  testified.  You  couldn't  hardly  expect  him  to  do  it.  But 
Mr.  Freeman  was  always  sober.  And  if  there  was  any  one  to  keep 
an  eye,  he  could  unpack  boxes  with  a  rare  skill,  hard  to  parallel. 
Just  only  to  keep  an  eye  on  him,  in  case! 

Mr.  Freeman  was  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  the  day.  His 
presence  was  accustomed  to  be  manifested  from  below,  on  the 
days  he  claimed  as  his  own,  by  the  sound  of  a  pump  in  the  back- 
airy,  followed  by  the  music  of  a  waste  pipe  when  the  cistern  on  the 
top  storey  was  full  up.  Also  by  a  sense  of  hoarseness  diffused 
through  the  basement.  His  name  perplexed  me  because  I  thought 
the  last  syllable  was  the  source  of  my  mother's  designation  for  him. 
He  was  a  very  ancient  institution  in  our  house;  but  my  mother 
always  kept  him  at  arms'  length,  and  spoke  of  him  distinctly  as 
"  The  Man."  I  think  she  had  cherished  the  idea  that  he  would  die 
away  next  week  and  give  place  to  a  superior  substitute,  ever  since 
his  first  appearance  on  the  scene,  as  long  ago,  I  believe,  as  her  first 
entry  into  the  house,  some  twelve  or  thirteen  years  before. 

"  You  might  leave  the  child  alone  for  one  moment,  Nathaniel, 
and  bestir  yourself  to  be  of  some  use."  So  said  my  mother,  and 
I  wasn't  grateful.  For  a  paper  bag  my  father  was  inflating,  with 
an  eye  to  a  concussion,  had  to  postpone  the  f  ulfilment  of  its  destiny. 
But  I  was  thankful  to  see  that  he  retained  control  of  that  event, 
throttling  the  intake  of  the  bag  discreetly,  as  he  said  :• — "  Can't 
you  let  The  Man  get  the  lids  off,  and  leave  'em  for  me  to  see.  Some 
day  soon — the  next  opportunity."  Thereon  my  mother  said : — "  I 
knew  it  would  be  that,"  and  guillotined  the  subject,  with  an  affec- 
tation of  final  reabsorption  into  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  being  unreasonable.  Csecilia  ? "  said  my 
father,  and  I  hoped  my  mother  would  tell  us.  But  she  kept  silence, 


16  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  my  father  continued : — "  You  know  there's  no  holiday  this 
month.  Tomorrow,  Saturday,  I've  an  appointment  with 
Dalrymple.  Besides,  Saturday  is  Saturday.  And  of  course  Sunday 
is  Sunday."  My  memory  detects  a  shrug  in  my  father's  shoulders 
here,  as  of  secular  shoulders  entering  a  useless  protest  against  rigid 
Sabbatarianism. 

Varnish  had  a  happy  faculty  of  perceiving  situations  and  meet- 
ing difficulties.  How  fully  all  were  aware  that  my  father's  shrug 
was  really  an  impious  suggestion;  was  shown  by  her  thinking  a 
fragmentary  remark,  "  O'ny  this  once,  and  the  young  ladies  all  at 
Church ! "  sufficient  to  convey  a  hint  that  Sunday  morning — 
even  Sunday  morning! — might  be  devoted  to  an  inspection  of  these 
mysterious  boxes. 

Silence  ensued  and  my  father  watched  my  mother.  Varnish 
anticipated  a  protest  on  the  score  of  The  Man's  religious  sensitive- 
ness. "  Mr.  Freeman  he  isn't  that  particular  to  the  day,  not  to 
oblige,"  said  she;  and  her  meaning  was  clear,  though  her  style 
defied  analysis. 

My  mother  was  placed  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  She  could 
gratify  her  religious  instincts  at  the  cost  of  delaying  her  inspection 
of  the  boxes,  or  get  an  early  insight  into  their  contents  by  sacrific- 
ing the  observance  of  one  Sunday.  She  saw  a  way  to  the  latter 
alternative  which  would  keep  her  personally  free  from  blame, 
absolve  her  of  rank  impiety,  and  at  the  same  time  gratify  a  long- 
standing curiosity,  by  shifting  the  responsibility  of  Sabbath-break- 
ing off  on  scapegoats.  "  I  suppose,"  said  she,  "  you  must  have  your 
own  way.  Let  it  be  Sunday  morning."  She  entered  into  a  pro- 
gramme or  scheme  of  action  with  an  interest  which  hardly  war- 
ranted her  final  dismissal  of  the  scapegoats  into  the  wilderness. 
"  I  always  have  to  give  way,"  was  her  concluding  remark.  I 
thought  that  my  father's  manipulation  of  the  bag,  ending  in  a 
really  noble  report  at  this  moment,  had  in  it  all  the  force  of  ratifi- 
cation. 

Anyhow  it  was  decided  that  The  Man,  Freeman,  should  get  the 
tops  off  the  boxes  to  the  satisfaction  of  Varnish,  and  under  her 
personal  guidance  and  inspection;  that  the  lumber-room's  dust  of 
ages  should  be  abated  by  the  tea-leaves  of  yesterday,  and  that  in  the 
absence  of  my  sisters  and  their  educational  governess  at  St. 
George's  Bloomsbury,  my  father  and  mother  and  myself — by 
special  permission,  at  my  fathers  request — should  witness  the 
actual  disembowelling  of  these  long-neglected  receptacles,  and  make 
an  examination  of  the  contents.  All  this  came  to  pass,  and  my 
mind  still  retains  a  vivid  image  of  this  attic  in  the  roof  overlooking 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  17 

the  Square,  and  the  plane  trees  rising  above  the  parapet  outside  ita 
two  windows,  now  opened  for  the  first  time  for  years;  its  sloped 
Mansard  roof  and  ceiling  with  a  trapdoor  in  it,  rousing  the 
curiosity  of  an  infant  mind  to  madness;  and  a  bouquet  which  I 
think  was  Mr.  Freeman,  who  had  been  for  some  time  simmering  in 
the  heat  when  we  came  on  the  scene;  with  which  was  associated 
another  flavour  which  I  have  since  experienced  in  connection  with 
sobriety,  that  of  beer.  Add  to  these,  please,  images  of  my  father 
and  mother  keeping  as  much  as  possible  out  of  the  way  of  the 
dirt,  and  Varnish  interposing  on  my  natural  disposition  to  get 
into  it. 

Looking  back  now,  I  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  all 
those  boxes  should  have  been  warehoused  for  so  long,  unexamined, 
at  intervals  forgotten  altogether.  I  should  find  it  harder  still,  if 
I  had  not  since  known  cases  so  nearly  equivalent  elsewhere.  The 
worst  memories  of  damp  warehouses  cannot  keep  Lethe  water  from 
the  throats  of  those  whose  goods  they  have  absorbed,  at  least  where 
no  accommodation  rent  is  charged;  then  reminders  come.  And  the 
mislaying  of  inventories,  punctually  and  without  fail,  is  one  of  the 
strongest  distinguishing  characteristics  of  the  human  race.  I  don't 
feel  at  all  sure  it  is  not  the  one  that  differentiates  between  ourselves 
and  the  anthropoid  ape. 


CHAPTEK  II 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

OH  dear* — how  dirty  it  all  was !    The  contents  of  the  box,  I  mean. 

"Whoever  packed  this  here  box!,"  said  The  Man,  "might  just 
as  well  have  stopped  at  home,  according  to  my  ideas."  From  which 
I,  being  young,  derived  a  false  impression  that  no  person  inherent 
in  any  household  could  pack  boxes,  but  was  always  dependent 
on  assistance  from  experts.  Also  that  The  Man  knew  and  we 
didn't. 

"  It  was  packed  at  my  grandmother's  at  Peckham  Rye,"  said  my 
mother  with  dignity,  as  one  secure  in  her  ancestral  claims;  but  a 
little  in  awe  of  The  Man,  for  all  that.  "  It  was  packed  before  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo." 

"  There  you  are !  "  said  The  Man.  "  There  you  have  it.  That's 
how  they  did  their  packing,  in  them  days.  Wot  did  I  say  ? "  This 
added  another  impression  to  the  store  in  my  youthful  mind,  that  the 
casus  belli  as  between  the  opposing  armies  at  Waterloo  turned  on 
methods  of  packing  boxes,  and  that  the  triumph  of  my  countrymen 
— I  already  knew  we  had  won  that  battle — had  established  a  higher 
standard  for  future  ages. 

"  My  dear,"  said  my  mother,  addressing  my  father.  "  The  Man 
says  this  box  is  very  badly  packed." 

She  had  made  a  good  deal  of  capital  out  of  her  heroic  ascent 
of  three  flights  of  stairs,  in  defiance  of  a  liberal  supply  of  ailments, 
and  a  chair  had  been  sent  for  to  the  nursery  for  her  accommoda- 
tion. This  manoeuvre  helped  to  confirm  a  position  she  had  captured 
for  herself,  as  of  one  who  countenances  an  escapade  of  a  wilful 
husband,  an  indulged  retainer,  and  an  inexplicable  Man.  It  com- 
pelled my  father  to  an  attitude  of  indecision,  and  made  her  assump- 
tion of  the  task  of  interpreter  between  him  and  The  Man  meritori- 
ous. He  was  outflanked,  and  could  only  stand  feeling  about  on  his 
face  as  if  the  modelling  dissatisfied  him.  "  Dear  me ! "  said  he. 
"Does  it  matter?  Won't  the  things  come  out?" 

"  They  won't  come  out  of  theirselves,"  said  The  Man.  "  They'll 
have  to  be  took.  But  you've  only  to  say  the  word." 

"You  hear,  my  dear,  what  The  Man  says,"  said  my  mother. 

18 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  19 

"  What  we  have  to  settle  is — is  the  box  to  be  unpacked  or  not  ?  " 
Even  my  infant  mind  saw  my  mother's  inconsistency  when  she 
added  "  Whichever  you  wish."  For  this  referred  the  decision  to  my 
father. 

He,  with  the  whole  responsibility  on  his  shoulders,  meditated 
before  he  replied,  "  The  point  is —  "  and  came  to  a  standstill. 
He  seemed  preoccupied  with  the  modelling  of  his  face.  But  when 
my  mother  said,  "Don't  make  faces,  Nathaniel,"  he  became  sud- 
denly attentive  and  completed  his  remark,  "  The  point  is,  if  you 
do  take  'em  out,  can  you  get  'em  back  again  ? " 

"  The  Man  can,"  said  my  mother.  And  my  father  seemed  to 
revise  or  annul  his  statement  of  the  point  at  issue,  saying : — "  I  say 
leave  'em  out  of  the  box.  If  it  was  me,  I.  should." 

The  Man  said,  "  As  easy  shove  'em  in  as  not !  "  and  preserved  a 
resentful  silence. 

My  mother  yielded  herself  a  prey  of  despair.  "  You're  no  help, 
Nathaniel,"  she  said.  "  You  never  are  any  help.  Oh  dear!  " 

My  nurse  interposed,  saying,  "  Missis  had  better  set,"  and  intro- 
duced the  supplied  chair. 

My  mother,  who  sat  down  and  said  it  was  nothing,  suffered 
patiently  for  some  seconds  from  the  affection,  whatever  it  was,  that 
Varnish's  thoughtfulness  had  made  her  sit  down  about.  During 
these  seconds,  it  seemed,  there  had  been  interchange  of  thought 
between  my  father  and  Varnish,  for  he  said  to  her,  "  Just  a 
spoonful " — a  valueless  instruction  taken  by  itself — and  she  pro- 
vided what  I  conceive  to  have  been  "  Dr.  Endicott's  Mixture  "  in  a 
graduated  glass.  After  a  few  more  seconds,  in  which  I  wondered 
whether  Dr.  Endicott  was  better,  or  worse,  than  my  mother,  she 
revived,  and  the  bill  was  brought  up  again  for  a  second  read- 
ing. 

u  As  you  object  to  The  Man  unpacking  the  box,  my  dear."  said 
my  mother,  faintly,  "  it  must  be  nailed  down  again,  and  put  back." 

Whereupon  my  father  said,  "  Perhaps  you  had  better  get  the 
things  out,  Freeman." 

Varnish  brought  a  cheerful  optimism  to  bear,  "  If  Mr.  Freeman 
•was  to  get  them  out,  Mam,  we  should  know  what  there  was,  another 
time.  And,  as  I  say,  there's  no  harm  in  knowing." 

"  And  The  Man  is  very  careful,"  said  my  mother,  who  was  less 
faint. 

"It's  nothing,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Varnish. 
Why.  Mr.  Freeman  he'll  be  through  it  afore  you  can  say." 

"  What  I'm  considerin'  of,"  said  Mr.  Freeman,  The  Man,  "  is — 
•where  all  these  here  things  is  to  be  stood.  You  pint  out  the  place, 


20  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  I'll  attend  to  it."  He  became  aggressively  motionless.  I 
observed  that  by  this  coup-de-main  he  had  secured  the  credit  of 
scheming  a  plan  of  campaign,  and  at  the  same  time  devolved 
responsibility  on  every  one  else. 

The  respective  merits  of  different  proposals  were  then  weighed. 
In  the  end  my  father  put  his  eyebrows  up  in  a  puzzled  way  and  left 
them  up.  If  this  was  a  forerunner  of  speech,  it  was  baffled,  for 
my  mother  said,  "  If  I  was  allowed,  I  could  direct,"  and  closed  her 
eyes,  expressing  readiness  to  endure  even  more.  Varnish  said 
sotto  voce,  "  What  I'm  thinking  of  is  Missis,"  meaning  that  my 
mother's  nervous  system  under  such  trials  was  the  source  of  her 
anxiety.  My  father  brought  his  eyebrows  down  again. 

Mr.  Freeman  said:  "If  it  is  to  be  took  downstairs;  say  took 
downstairs.  If  it's  to  be  kep'  up  here,  say  kep'  up  here.  If  it  is 
to  be  diwision  betwixt  and  between  the  two  of  'em,  name  the  pro- 
portions. It  ain't  for  me  to  settle." 

My  father  scratched  his  left  cheekbone  very  slowly.  "  I  cannot 
see,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  see — •— '  But  my  mother  stopped  him. 
"You  might  wait,  I  think,  this  once,  Nathaniel!  Only  this  once! 
I  won't  ask  you  to  wait  again."  Those  were  my  mother's  words, 
and  to  them  my  father  replied : — "  Well — well !  "  And  felt  his  right 
cheekbone;  comparing  it  with  his  left,  I  thought.  Then  my  mother 
continued : — "  The  Man  had  better  place  the  goods,  as  they  come 
from  the  box,  carefully  upon  the  floor."  By  laying  a  marked  stress 
on  the  word  "  carefully,"  she,  I  am  sure,  convinced  herself  that  she 
was  showing  in  the  heart  of  Chaos  great  powers  of  direction  and 
organization  of  a  staff  of  employees  viciously  wedded  to  destruction, 
and  insensible  to  discipline.  Just  as  Maturity  and  Experience 
enjoin  Prudence  and  Caution,  but  don't  tell  you  what  to  do. 

As  I  said,  first  thing,  the  contents  of  the  box  were  dirty.  It  had 
distributed  a  flavour  of  decay  when  first  opened.  Now,  the  uproot- 
ing or  detachment  of  the  first  parcel  it  contained  caused  a  fume  of 
old  books  to  rise,  tainted  with  another  of  interments;  and  perhaps 
a  third,  of  mice  and  their  habits.  The  Man  was  nearly  omnipotent, 
according  to  Varnish.  He  could  even  undo  the  parcels  and  get  the 
papers  out  of  the  way,  seeing  the  mess ;  and  a  bit  of  clean  noospaper 
would  come  in  much  handier,  in  the  manner  of  speaking. 

"  Mercy  my!  "  said  Varnish,  when  she  saw  the  first  fruits  of  the 
box.  "  A  murderer,  with  noomerals !  "  It  really  was  a  plaster  head 
good  to  see  your  bumps  by,  with  Benevolence  and  Self-Esteem  and 
Philoprogenitiveness  large,  and  Music  and  Language  hardly  worth 
having  at  all.  But  Varnish's  experience  of  previous  casts  were 
connected  with  Madame  Tussaud's. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  21 

"You  might  stand  that  on  the  chimney-piece  downstairs,"  said 
my  father. 

*'  My  dear!  "  said  my  mother.  "  Afterwards!  It  shall  all  be  done 
in  time,  if  you  will  only  wait!"  If  I  had  not  been  so  young  I 
should  have  taxed  my  mother  with  breach  of  promise  of 
patience. 

My  father  had  two  identities;  one  the  self  that  my  mother  had 
to  a  great  extent  overwhelmed  during  some  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
of  married  life,  the  other  an  uncrushed  individuality  which  still 
came  out  in  her  absence,  as  Mr.  Hyde  asserted  himself  through 
Dr.  Jekyll.  Sometimes  it  took  form  furtively  in  undertones  in  her 
presence.  His  saying  at  this  juncture,  "Easy  does  it,  Freeman. 
You'll  break  it,"  was  an  instance  of  this  dual  nature  cropping  up. 
But  he  had  spoken  too  audibly;  for  my  mother  overheard  him  and 
said  with  some  severity : — "  My  dear !  The  Man  knows."  Thereupon 
Dr.  Hyde  vanished,  and  Dr.  Jekyll  took  his  place;  or  vice  versa, 
whichever  was  which  in  this  case. 

The  Man  was  getting  into  difficulties  owing  to  the  very  trenchant 
way  in  which  this  huge  box  had  been  packed,  miscellaneous  articles 
of  all  sorts  seeming  to  have  been  incorporated  in  each  other  with 
a  view  to  economy  of  space.  Mysterious  outlying  portions  of  each 
accommodated  themselves  strangely  to  the  forms  of  others ;  such  as 
metallic  handles,  or  outstretched  limbs  of  sculptured  indetermi- 
nates,  Maenads  or  Satyrs  as  might  be,  resulting  in  a  compacted  mass 
which  refused  to  come  out  except  in  bulk.  The  paper  used  in 
packing  them  appeared  to  have  crept  into  the  cavities,  forming 
fibrous  tissue  such  as  makes  good  damage  done  to  bone-structure; 
or  makes  it  bad,  as  may  be.  One  hopes! 

"  Whoever  packed  this  here  box,"  said  The  Man,  after  one  or  two 
efforts  to  disintegrate  its  contents,  "  did  it  with  a  heye  to  crompli- 
cation."  My  father  touched  a  square  parcel  tied  with  string,  im- 
bedded in  a  corner,  and  said  almost  aside : — "  Try  that  one."  Mr. 
Freeman  said  approvingly : — "  My  dear !  "  He  acted  on  it,  and  a 
square  parcel  was  drawn  out  of  its  strings  and  cautiously  relieved 
of  its  environments.  My  father  identified  it  as  an  Orrery,  and 
Mr.  Freeman  said : — "  Ah,  I  should  say  that  was  wot  it  was."  But 
by  this  he  only  meant  to  recognize  the  suitability  of  so  contemptible 
a  name  for  so  objectionable  a  thing;  not  that  he  discerned  any 
meaning  in  the  first,  or  any  purpose  in  the  second. 

My  mother,  however,  murmured  to  Varnish:  "You  see!  The 
Man  knows."  My  father  then  said,  meekly: — "Anyhow,  it  will  be 
good  for  Eustace  John."  I  had  been  forecasting  advantages  to  myself 
from  the  investigations  in  progress  and  rejoiced  at  any  acquisition, 


L>_>  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

comprehensible  or  not.  I  asked  promptly,  ''Is  that  faw  me?"  and 
Varnish,  as  my  official  exponent,  seized  the  opportunity  to  say, 
"  On'y  if  you're  good,  Master  Eustace,  and  don't  spit  in  the  bath !  " 
referring  to  a  recent  passage  of  arms  between  us.  ... 

I  am  continually  conscious  in  all  this,  that  I  may  be  writing 
what  I  am  convinced  must  have  been,  rather  than  an  actual  memory 
of  what  was.  But  the  scene  passes  so  vividly  before  me — whether 
it  be  my  past  itself,  or  a  dream  of  .it — that  by  the  time  I  have  cut 
my  waning  pencil,  with  a  very  old  knife,  The  Man  will  seem  to 
have  unpacked  the  next  parcel.  I  need  not  say  that  Sunday  gear 
forbade  intervention  by  other  hands  than  his.  Yes,  there  he 
stands — in  my  mind's  eye,  I  mean — disrobing  a  heavy  volume  of 
an  outer  thick  wrapper,  and  an  inner  thin  one.  Then  he  explains 
it,  for  our  better  apprehension. 

"  This  here  affair,"  said  he,  "  is  a  book,  and  a  big  un  at  that. 
But  if  I  was  to  tell  you  I  could  read  it,  I  should  be  misleading  of 
you,  and  no  end  gained."  He  passed  the  mammoth  folio  to  my 
father,  adding,  "  I  never  did  set  up  for  a  scholar,  nor  yet  I  ain't 
a  going  to,  at  my  time  of  life."  This  speech  produced  a  curious 
impression  on  my  mother,  who  thereafter  suggested,  more  than 
once,  that  The  Man  could  have  read  "  Herodoti  Historia,  editit 
Gronovius,  sitmptibus  et  typis  et  cetera,"  if  he  had  chosen,  but  that 
his  native  modesty  shrank  from  a  pedantic  parade  of  academical 
knowledge.  My  father  looked  at  the  beginning  and  end  of  the 
volume,  and  laid  it  on  a  chair.  I  thought  he  had  read  it  through. 

"  What's  the  next  article.  Freeman  ? "  said  he.  But  my  mother 
said : — "  Do  give  The  Man  time,  my  dear."  Then  she  shut  her  eyes 
and  leaned  back,  to  say : — "  Always  impatience !  " 

The  next  article  was  bronze  statuary,  such  as  I  have  hinted  at. 
It  caused  Varnish  to  say : — "  Oh  my ! — well  I  never !  "  Which  was 
only  because  she  was  unsophisticated,  not  because  any  fault  could 
have  been  reasonably  found  with  either  the  nymph  or  the  satyr, 
eren  if  they  had  been  on  the  same  pedestal,  which  they  were  not. 
My  father  said,  looking  at  them  credulously : — "  Those  might  be 
worth  something."  But  he  knew  nothing  about  this  department, 
as  was  shown  before  the  box  was  empty. 

Several  things  then  came  out  of  it.  more  especially  a  uniform 
with  gold  braiding,  that  had  once  been  blue.  My  mother  remarked 
that  her  grandfather  was  attached  to  his  uniforms,  and  I  knew 
language  enough  to  picture  them  to  myself  as  sewn  on  to  the 
Rear- Admiral,  whom  I  understood  him  to  have  been,  during  some 
portion  of  his  earthly  career;  probably  the  latter,  as  our  designa- 
tions at  death  survive  us.  I  heard  this  title  for  the  first  time,  and 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  23 

can  remember  quite  well  a  distinct  impression  that  it  must  have 
been  a  drawback  to  his  rearing  freely — for  I  only  knew  the  term  in 
connection  with  horses — if  he  was  attached  to  his  uniform.  I  must 
have  been  a  clever  child,  to  get  involved  in  this  way  with  my 
information.  Stupid  children  fight  shy  of  such  ill-organized  specu- 
lation. 

But  the  Rear- Admiral's  uniform  was  put  aside  after  due  appre- 
ciation, and  bottles  came  to  light — wide-mouthed  bottles,  sealed 
over  the  cork.  They  contained  beans,  chiefly — some,  nice  and  shiny 
ones;  and  otherwise,  nuts,  powders,  and  amorphous  things  that 
might  have  been  worth  planting  to  see  if  they  were  roots.  My 
mother  remarked  that  her  grandfather,  when  a  post-captain,  was  for 
some  time  stationed  in  the  Southern  Hemisphere,  and  seemed  to 
think  this  an  explanation.  My  father  said,  "  Oh  ah !  "  and  manipu- 
lated his  countenance.  I  pictured  to  myself  the  Southern  Hemi- 
sphere as  brown  and  dry  and  rich  in  bottles. 

The  bottles  were  so  big  and  round  that  they  could  lie  in  a  row 
with  two  cylindrical  leather  cases,  such  as  our  forbears  used  to 
keep  portcrayons  in,  only  larger.  Being  opened,  these  were  found 
to  contain  two  pink  vases,  rather  pretty.  They  received  some 
admiration,  and  Mr.  Freeman,  The  Man,  said : — "  If  they  was  took 
to  Campling's  in  'Igh  'Olborn,  they'd  tell  you  the  market  value 
of  these  here  to  a  'apeny.  Just  you  show  'em  to  Campling's !  " 

Varnish  welcomed  Campling's  into  the  conversation ;  why — 
Heaven  knows!  She  had  seen  the  name  over  the  shop,  certainly. 
But  this  was  no  reason  for  so  effusive  an  accolade  to  Campling's. 
"  There  now,  Mam,  didn't  we  see  it  only  the  other  day  ? "  But 
there  was  a  greater  marvel  even  than  the  recency  of  this  observa- 
tion of  its  frontage;  namely,  the  perfect  concord  of  The  Man  with 
my  mother  and  nurse  on  the  point  of  its  whereabouts. 

Said  Mr.  Freeman : — "  Just  you  go  along  as  far  as  Kingsgate 
Street  and  cross  across.  And  then  foller  on  no  further  than  what 
you  see  the  fire-escape.  Then  there  you  are ! — Campling's/' 

Said  my  mother: — "That  is  perfectly  right.  I  have  seen  the 
shop  myself.  On  the  other  side  of  the  way — not  this  side.  It  is 
between  a  pianoforte-maker's  and  a  wholesale  chemist's." 

Said  Varnish,  irresistibly : — "  Why.  it's  not  above  four  minutes' 
walk  after  you  pass  the  cab  stand !  You've  only  to  go  straight  on 
and  you  can't  miss  it." 

And  then  each  underlined  each  several  view  expressed,  in  its 
several  order,  as  follows: 

"  'Taint  as  if  it  warn't  wrote  up  plain,  Campling's.  Any  other 
name  I'd  have  told  you !  " 


24  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"The  pianoforte-maker  is  on  this  side;  not  the  other.  But  my 
advice  is  write  it  down.  (I  know  I  shall  not  be  attended  to.)  " 

"  Law,  Missis,  master  can't  miss  it — starin'  him  in  the  face ! 
And  he  can  always  ask  a  policeman."  Then  a  short  chorus  of 
approval  endorsed  the  policeman,  as  a  sort  of  through-route  glance- 
guide  to  the  Universe. 

By  the  time  Campling's  had  been  so  long  under  discussion,  its 
raison-d'etre  therein  may  have  been  overlooked.  After  all,  it  was 
only  to  be  referred  to  as  an  authority  on  the  market  value  of  pink 
pots,  if  any.  And  this  only  on  the  strength  of  The  Man's  omnis- 
cience, for  which  the  only  warrant  was  his  own  ipse  dixit.  But  I 
have  learned  since  those  days  that  great  positiveness,  accompanied 
by  virgin  ignorance,  commands  a  reverence  which  the  slightest  evi- 
dence of  information  by  the  speaker  would  undermine  altogether; 
even  as  the  little  pitted  speck  in  garnered  fruit  soon  makes  us 
search  for  a  bite  in  vain. 

Several  other  things  came  out  of  the  box.  I  remember  a  Malay 
Creese  and  a  pair  of  ancient  pistols  which  were  afterwards  responsi- 
ble for  some  confusion  when  I  came  to  read  my  Shakespeare.  But 
of  course  my  father's  name  for  them  was  provoked  by  Bardolph's 
colleague,  and  stuck.  I  remember  these  because  they  were  after- 
wards placed  on  the  wall  in  the  drawing-room,  and  spoken  of, 
thenceforward,  as  having  come  out  of  "  The  Box."  So  was  a 
serious  Buddha  from  Japan  in  porcelain,  who  could  bow  and  wave 
his  hand  for  quite  a  long  time,  granted  a  primum  mobile.  Then 
there  was  a  Gardener's  Chronicle,  twelve  bound  volumes  of  the 
John  Bull  newspaper,  bundles  of  MSS.  frightfully  curled  at  the 
corners,  and  a  Russian  Zamovar  whose  tap  waggled.  My  father 
said  he  would  see  to  having  it  put  in  repair,  and  The  Man  said 
they  would  attend  to  anything  of  that  sort  at  Bradbury's  in  Lambs 
Conduit  Street.  It  might  come  to  eighteenpence. 

My  mother  appeared  to  be  as  it  were  possessed  with  a  feverish 
desire,  perfectly  unaccountable,  that  my  father  should  go  forth- 
with to  Campling's,  to  learn  the  market  value  of  the  little  pink 
pots.  Campling  would  know,  and  The  Man  knew  he  would  know. 
The  Man,  for  his  part,  aided  and  abetted  by  Varnish,  persisted  in" 
giving  my  father  encouragement,  as  an  antidote  to  constitutional 
timidity  of  spirit.  "  You  won't  find  no  difficulty,"  said  he.  "  Why, 
you  can  see  'em  from  across  the  road!  And  as  for  inquiries, 
Law  bless  you,  they'll  answer  you  anything  you  want  to  know,  as 
soon  as  look  at  you."  But,  even  as  the  Sphinx  might  have  done 
under  like  circumstances,  my  father  said.  "  Oh  ah! — well,  we  shall 
see,"  and  remained  unmoved  as  far  as  Mr.  Freeman's  suggestions 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  25 

went.  But,  unlike  the  Sphinx,  when  my  mother  said  to  him, 
"  You  might  pay  attention  to  what  The  Man  says,  my  dear !  "  he 
replied  meekly,  "  Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly ! "  and  appeared 
to  climb  down  off  his  metaphorical  equivalent  of  the  Sphinx's 
pedestal. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MR.  HYDE  must  have  got  the  upper  hand  of  Dr.  Jekyll  when 
my  father  started  with  me,  some  mornings  later,  under  promise  to 
be  sure  and  call  at  Campling's  to  make  that  inquiry.  I  have  often 
puzzled  myself  to  account  for  his  freedom  on  that  day  from  the 
thraldom  of  Somerset  House.  Why  did  I  never  question  him  on 
this  point  during  his  lifetime?  I  did  not,  and  can  only  accept 
unchallenged  my  recollection  of  how  we  set  out  together,  ostensibly 
for  a  walk,  about  an  hour  after  breakfast.  It  seemed  to  me  he 
stood  committed  to  Campling's,  especially  as  he  carried  in  a  brown 
paper  parcel  the  two  pink  pots,  tied  up  with  stout  string,  very 
easy  to  undo  without  cutting,  not  to  ask  for  any  fresh  at  the 
shop.  But  we  never  went  to  Campling's,  and  its  generosity  was  not 
presumed  upon.  And  as  for  Mr.  Hyde,  no  one  knew  anything  about 
him,  in  those  days. 

But  my  mother  knew  of  a  Spirit  of  Contradiction  which  obsessed 
my  father,  and  no  doubt  it  was  under  its  influence  that  he  called 
.a  cab  the  moment  he  and  I  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house.  For 
even  my  tender  years  knew  that  Campling's,  being  in  High  Hoi- 
born,  was  only  a  step.  Possibly  the  same  spirit  actuated  him  when 
he  said  to  the  cab : — "  I  can't  tell  you  where  I  want  to  go,  because 
I've  forgotten  the  name  of  the  street." 

The  cab  replied :  "  That  don't  concern  me,  so  long  as  you're 
satisfied.  Jump  in,  Governor !  " 

My  father  said : — "  Suppose  we  try  Pall  Mall  ? — I  rather  fancy  it's 
near  Pall  Mall." 

"  Histe  the  Little  Governor  in,  and  get  in  yourself,"  said  the 
cab.  "  I've  heard  tell  of  Pall  Mall,  in  my  time."  Whereupon  my 
father  hoisted  me  in  and  we  were  off. 

It  was  my  first  experience  of  a  hansom,  and  I  appreciated  it. 
And  the  consciousness  of  its  newness  is  with  me  now;  for  it  was 
a  newborn  cab,  with  new  velvet  seats,  and  such  copal  all  over  it 
as  only  coachmakers  can  buy.  But  even  as  the  first  bagpipes  found 
a  complete  highlander  to  play  them,  so  this  cab,  fresh  from  the 
hands  of  its  maker,  had  lighted  on  a  matured  hansom  cabman  to 
drive  it,  who  must  have  left  the  hands  of  his  maker  twenty  odd 

26 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  27 

years  before.  In  saying  this,  I  am  deferring  to  the  popular  costno- 
genesis,  and  accepting  the  view  that  a  hansom  cabman — like  you 
and  me — though  originally  the  work  of  God,  is  entirely  indebted  to 
Nature  for  his  subsequent  growth  and  development. 

Am  I  right  in  my  impression  that  in  those  early  days  of 
hansoms,  when  their  life1 — and  mine — was  new,  they  laid  claim, 
by  implication,  to  familiarity  with  the  Turf  and  the  Fancy;  that 
they  struck  a  sporting  attitude;  affected  intimacy  with  the 
Aristocracy;  probably  put  the  amount  of  their  overcharges  upon 
the  Favourite?  Am  I  wrong  in  supposing  that  they  have  grown 
meeker  and  meeker  and  meeker  ever  since  those  golden  days,  and 
that  the  poor  crestfallen  survivors  of  their  glories  are  dying  of 
Locomotor  Ataxy,  and  very  soon  won't  have  a  word  to  throw  at  a 
dog?  Never  mind  if  I  have  diagnosed  a  little  wrong  the  fatal 
complaint  that  is  destroying  them.  It's  very  plausible,  anyhow! 

I  may  be  mistaken  in  my  belief  that  in  the  years  I  had  before 
me  then,  the  sun  shone  brighter  and  the  days  were  longer,  the 
full  moons  were  fuller  and  the  nights  warmer,  the  ways  of  men 
less  iniquitous  and  the  November  fogs  a  cause  for  rejoicing,  with 
which  were  associated  squibs.  It  may  have  been  an  exaggerated 
view  of  Mecklenburg  Square  to  account  it  the  pivot  of  the  Solar 
System;  and  possibly  the  organman  who  came  Saturdays  was  a 
discordant  organman  when  he  played  all  the  six  tunes  for  two- 
pence to  my  father's  extreme  annoyance;  but  he  bore  it  for  my 
sake.  Perhaps  even  The  Waits  were  unmusical !  My  faith  has  been 
so  shaken  in  my  old  age  about  these  idols  of  my  youth,  that  I  can 
believe  almost  anything.  But  that  word  "  almost "  leaves  a  corner 
in  which  I  may  still  treasure  intact  an  image  of  the  hansom  cab 
in  the  days  of  its  early  splendour,  its  confidence  of  unchanged 
prosperity  in  the  years  to  come. 

A  little  way  from  the  entrance  to  this  building  where  I  write  is 
a  cabstand,  or  the  ghost  of  one;  and  in  my  last  familiarity  with 
London  streets,  before  I  became  bedridden,  I  used  to  note  the  spec- 
tres that  hovered  about  it.  They  laid  claim  to  be,  or  to  have  been, 
the  drivers  of  these  relics  of  a  bygone  day.  There  was  one  that 
was  always  there;  he  may  be  there  still;  but  if  he  is,  he  will  not 
be  very  long,  unless  he  is,  as  may  be,  a  real  ghost  now ;  and  not  a 
metaphorical  one  merely — for  that  was  what  I  meant  when  I 
called  him  a  spectre.  He  was  a  very,  very  old  man;  older  than 
myself,  by  fifteen  years.  When  he  told  me  so — for  I  asked  him  his 
age  and  he  made  no  secret  of  it — a  thought  passed  through  my 
mind  that  as  far  as  years  went  he  might  be  that  very  selfsame 
Jehu  that  drove  my  father  and  me  in  that  resplendent  vehicle  to 


28  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

St.  James'  Square,  and  hadn't  change  for  a  bull,  which  was  in 
those  days  an  obscure  name  for  a  five-shilling  piece;  but  who, 
when  my  father  said,  "  Then  you'll  have  to  do  with  two  shillings," 
replied  merely,  "  Chuck  it  up,"  and  went  his  way  contented,  as  one 
who  could  now  and  then  despise  mere  dross.  And  that  forlorn  old 
cab,  whose  fractured  shaft  might  with  advantage  have  been  re- 
broken  and  reset,  whose  harness  had  been  made  good  and  left  bad 
so  often,  whose  splash-board  had  been  kicked  in  and  confessed  it, 
whose  cushions'  hearts  had  hardened  and  whose  window  stuck 
in  the  middle  and  wouldn't  go  up  or  down — this  very  cab  was  not 
so  unlike  that  cab  of  old  as  I  am  now  unlike  the  small  boy  that 
sat  in  it  and  saw  for  the  first  time  the  glorious  spectacle  of  the 
Duke  of  York's  column.  For  the  driver  stopped  a  moment  to  look 
at  it,  to  oblige.  And  I  feel,  illogically,  that  his  doing  so  has  some- 
how given  me  time  for  all  this  about  the  two  cabs,  or  the  two 
phases  of  the  same  cab. 

Just  as  I  cannot,  at  this  length  of  time,  form  any  surmise  as  to 
how  my  father  came  to  be  a  free-lance,  clear  of  the  Office,  on  that 
day,  neither  can  I  reconcile  or  explain  many  things  that  my 
memory  insists  on  my  believing.  I  can  only  accept  them. 

I  am  convinced  for  instance  that  a  small  boy,  who  may  have 
been  me,  went  up  a  stair,  flanked  by  black  figures  which  I  have 
since  failed  to  identify  anywhere,  and  said  to  my  father : — "  When 
shall  we  go  to  Campling's  ? " 

"  Tomorrow  or  next  day  or  the  day  after  that,"  said  my  father, 
with  what  I  have  since  understood  to  be  effrontery. 

"Yes,  but  which?"  said  the  small  boy,  who  really  must  have 
been  me. 

"  Do  you  know  what  happened  to  Inquisitive  Bob  ? "  said  my 
father.  I  intimated  that  I  did  not,  but  should  be  glad  to  hear. 
So  he  continued : — "  Inquisitive  Bob  was  sat  on  the  hob.  So  now 
you  know  what  happened  to  him,  young  man." 

I  reflected  deeply,  and  framed  a  question,  of  which  I  cannot 
supply  the  pronunciation ;  so  I  do  not  know  if  my  father  was  right 
when  he  mimicked  it,  repeating  my  words: — "'Worse  the  fire 
lighted  in  the  fire?'  Of  course  it  was.  They  made  it  roasting 
hot  on  purpose." 

It  was  most  unsatisfactory  to  forsake  this  topic  without  know- 
ing how  much  Inquisitive  Bob  had  suffered.  I  approached  it  again 
indirectly.  "  How  hot  was  it  on  the  hob  where  he  was? "  said  I. 

"  It  was  for  asking  that  very  question  he  was  put  on,"  said  my 
father. 

"  Was  he  tooked  off? "  I  asked.    I  think  my  father's  answer  must 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  29 

have  been  that  he  was,  in  the  course  of  next  day,  as  a  corresponding 
image  of  Inquisitive  Bob,  suffering  severely,  remained  to  harrow 
my  feelings.  I  cannot  remember  the  words  that  created  this  image. 

But  I  can  remember  passing  upstairs  holding  my  father's  hand; 
and  then  finding  myself  in  a  crowd,  among  many  legs  and  a  few 
skirts,  each  containing  an  additional  pair,  presumably.  I  remem- 
ber his  last  caution  to  me,  u  Now,  don't  you  get  lost  in  the  crowd, 
Eustace  John,"  and  that  he  then  talked  to  a  leg-owner  whose 
head  I  could  not  compass,  because  I  really  saw  nothing  of  him 
but  a  ponderous  corporation. 

The  leg-owner's  voice  was  as  ponderous,  and  the  two  together 
gave  me  an  impression  of  something  I  had  then  no  name  for.  I 
have  learned  it  since — it  is  solvency.  After  some  conversation  his 
voice  said  to  my  father,  with  weighty  pauses : — "  Don't  hesitate  to 
make  use  of  my  name,  Pascoe."  That  was  my  father's  name,  and 
my  own;  but  I  can't  say  I  had  ever  before  known  any  one  to  call 
him  by  it,  without  "  Mr."  I  was  naturally  curious  to  know  what 
the  leg-owner's  name  was,  having  inferred  that  my  father  would 
now — occasionally  at  any  rate — substitute  it  for  his  own.  I  never 
knew  it,  as  the  gentleman  said,  "  Ta-ta,  Pascoe!  "  and  moved  away. 
But  first  he  interfered  with  my  head — which  I  resented — and  said, 
without  looking  at  me  so  far  as  I  saw: — "  That  your  little  chap? 
That's  fine."  But  he  may  have  got  a  peep  at  me  round  his  stomach, 
when  my  eyes  were  not  on  him. 

However,  my  father  consoled  me,  looking  down  on  me  in  my 
grove  of  legs,  and  saying : — "  How  are  we  getting  on  down  there  ? 
All  right  ? "  I  was  able  to  give  satisfactory  assurances,  like  the 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs.  Then  a  gentleman  without  a  hat  who 
seemed  to  be  at  home,  addressing  my  father  with  unwarrantable 
familiarity,  called  him  Straps.  But  my  father  did  not  resent  this ; 
only  saying  in  reply : — "  You're  the  man  I  was  looking  for." 

I  quite  anticipated  that  this  gentleman  would  say  I  was  the 
boy  he  was  looking  for,  so  firmly  did  he  fix  one  eye  upon  me. 
The  other  seemed  fixed  on  my  father,  as  I  thought  at  the  time  by 
choice,  ascribing  to  his  eyes  the  independent  action  of  twin  screws. 
But  what  he  said  was  not  what  I  expected  at  all,  for  he  repeated 
exactly  what  the  solvent  gentleman  had  said: — "That  your  little 
chap?"  But  he  did  not  sanction  me  in  the  same  way,  and  I  felt 
die  trop  when  he  added,  "'  I  thought  all  yours  were  little  girls. 
Straps,"  rather  reproachfully.  I  had  the  impression  that  my  father 
cut  a  poor  figure  when  he  answered  evasively : — "  So  they  are,  all 
except  this  one."  Both  appeared  then  to  consider  me,  and  I 
believe  I  anticipated  some  compromise  that  might  soften  the  posi- 


30  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

tion.  But  the  gentleman  only  played  the  piano  on  his  legs  with 
his  fingers;  which  were  loose,  because  it  was  his  thumbs  only  that 
were  stuck  in  the  trouser  pockets.  He  stopped  the  tune  to  say 
suddenly : — "  NothV  else  at  my  shop.  Boys,  boys,  boys !  What's 
the  office  now,  Straps  ? "  By  which  I  clearly  understood  he  was 
inquiring  about  the  purpose  of  my  father's  visit.  u  Anything  I 
can  do  for  you  ? "  confirmed  it. 

"  Not  out  here,"  said  my  father.  "  Haven't  you  got  a  quiet 
corner? " 

"  There's  nobody  to  speak  of  in  the  clerk's  den,"  said  the  gentle- 
man. "  Come  along  in."  So  we  went  along  and  found  only  a 
freckled  youth  of  whom  I  think  I  felt  that  it  was  as  well  no  one 
should  speak,  as  praise  might  have  been  artificial.  He  had  white 
hair  close  cropped,  and  was  trying  to  get  the  feather  of  a  pen 
below  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  as  though  to  combat  some  irritation 
on  his  scapula.  When  we  entered,  he  gave  up  trying,  and  wrote 
assiduously.  The  gentleman  gave  my  father  a  chair  and  sat  on 
a  high  stool  himself,  taking  me  between  his  knees.  I  was  obliged 
to  lend  myself  to  the  fiction  that  I  liked  this  sort  of  thing.  But 
I  didn't.  I  was,  however,  too  much  occupied  at  this  moment  with 
a  problem  to  be  much  concerned  about  this.  I  was  asking  myself 
the  riddle : — "  Why  did  this  gentleman  ask  my  father  what  the 
office  was,  when  he  must  have  known  ?  " 

*'  I'm  prepared  to  be  told  I'm  a  fool,  Stowe,"  said  my  father, 
beginning  to  untie  the  parcel  he  carried.  "  But  even  a  couple  of 
pounds  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  I  expect  you  can  tell  offhand 
whether  these  will  fetch  anything  or  not." 

"  Get  'em  out,  and  let's  have  a  look  at  'em." 

My  father  untied  deliberately,  with  an  evident  motive.  His 
amour  propre  wanted  soft  places  to  fall  on,  of  disbelief  in  any 
substantial  value  of  the  articles  to  come- — pounds,  you  know!  The 
leg-owner  would  have  done  the  same,  but  would  have  made  it 
hundreds. 

"  There's  any  amount  of  string  on  the  premises,"  said  Mr. 
Stowe,  of  whose  name  I  was  still  unaware,  for  a  reason  that  will 
appear  later. 

"  I  like  untying  knots,"  said  my  father,  not  very  plausibly. 
"  You  see  after  all,  the  things  are  no  use  to  us.  And  I  expect 
they'll  pay  the  cab-fare.  And  it  gave  me  the  excuse  for  a  ride 
with  the  kid.  And  what's  a  couple  of  shillings  when  all's  said  and 
done?" 

"  Well — let's  have  a  look  at  'em !  "  said  Mr.  Stowe. 

My  father  finished  the  first  knot,  and  began  on  the  one  at  its 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  31 

antipodes.  This  sort  of  knot  is  always  harder  to  undo  than  the 
consummation  knot,  which  clever  young  men  can  make  a  porterage 
loop  of — only  the  parcel  rotates  and  amputates  your  finger.  My 
father  didn't  appear  to  be  in  a  hurry,  but  I  thought  Mr.  Stowe 
did.  However,  he  may  have  drummed  on  me  from  a  mistaken 
benevolence :  people  do  get  so  very  wrong  about  what  children  like. 

"  Bother  the  string ! "  said  he.  "  Throw  it  away.  Hang  the 
expense ! " 

My  father  was  trying  his  teeth  on  the  knot.  Through  them 
he  said: — "  All  right!  It's  just  coming."  And  it  came,  in  time. 
Then  during  the  removal  of  the  paper  he  found  an  opportunity  to 
say,  anxiously : — "  You  quite  understand  that  I  do  not  myself 
attach  any  value  to  these  articles.  It  is  only  that  my  profound 
ignorance  hesitated  to  condemn  them  as  valueless  without  reference 
to  an  authority  like  yourself " 

"  Shut  up ! "  said  Mr.  Stowe ;  and  I  thought  he  meant  repack 
the  two  cylindrical  boxes.  But  I  saw  my  error  when  he  held  out 
his  hand  for  one  of  them  and  began  removing  the  cover.  He  got 
it  off  and  looked  inside.  He  said : — "  Hullo !  " 

"It's  not  broken,  is  it?"  said  my  father. 

''  Hand  over  t'other  one,"  said  Mr.  Stowe.    "  I  say,  Straps ! " 

"Well,— what?      .    .    .    They're  exactly   alike." 

*'  Catch  hold  of  this  young  shaver.  He  ain't  safe  when  there's 
valuables  about.  .  .  .  Pepper,  go  and  tell  Mr.  Stacpoole  to  look 
in  here  before  he  goes."  This  was  to  the  clerk  who  said  "  Mr. 
Stacpoole  "  inanimately,  and  went  out  into  the  big  crowded  room 
from  which  people  were  departing  as  for  lunch,  talking  a  great 
deal.  I  presumed  that  it  was  Mr.  Stacpoole  whose  voice  I  had 
heard  saying  a  great  many  sums  of  money  somewhere  in  the  heart 
of  this  grove  of  legs. 

Do  not  suppose  I  lay  claim  to  having  grappled,  under  seven  years 
old,  with  such  a  name  as  Stacpoole.  But  the  fact  that  the  great 
Fine  Art  Auction  Mart  of  those  days  has  held  its  name  explains 
my  belief  that  I  heard  it  then.  I  believe  my  belief  is  a  mistaken 
belief;  but  I  should  not  talk  such  seeming  nonsense  did  I  not  be- 
lieve that  every  one's  record  of  childish  recollections  is  ready  to 
meet  me  halfway.  I  heard  something  then  no  doubt,  and  subse- 
quent experience  told  me  what.  But  the  clerk's  name  Pepper  I 
know  I  heard;  because  I  imputed  to  him  a  relation  to  our  pepper- 
castor  in  the  nursery,  somehow  connected  with  his  freckles. 

However,  I  can't  understand  much  of  what  followed.  Perhaps 
I  was  getting  anxious  for  my  midday  meal,  which  my  father  had 
undertaken  to  be  responsible  for.  But  I  do  recollect  that  Mr. 


32 

Stacpoole  came  in,  and  Mr.  Stowe  intercepted  him  outside  the 
office,  speaking  to  him  sotto  voce  over  one  of  the  vases,  which  he 
took  with  him.  Presently  Mr.  Stacpoole  said,  "  Glasgow?  "  and  Mr. 
Stowe  said,  "  No — Pascoe;  "  and  both  came  in  and  he  addressed  my 
father  by  name,  and  added,  "Pretty  little  thing! — but  won't  go 
into  three  figures  I  should  say."  My  father  looked  highly  satis- 
fied, and  then  all  three  talked  rather  loud.  After  which  Mr. 
Stacpoole  actually  said  what  the  other  two  had  said : — "  That  your 
little  chap,  Mr.  Pascoe?  Wants  .his  dinner,  I  should  say."  I 
thought  Mr.  Stacpoole  a  very  sensible  man. 

I  can't  account  for  my  remembering  nothing  clearly  of  the 
banquet,  unless  it  is  owing  to  my  having  devoted  myself  entirely 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  I  am  haunted  by  an  impression  that 
the  name  of  the  restaurant  was  Tippetty's,  but  twenty  years  later 
my  father  repudiated  Tippetty;  only  he  couldn't  recollect  the  real 
name.  We  went  at  the  recommendation  of  Mr.  Stowe,  who  accom- 
panied us.  He  and  my  father  talked  a  great  deal,  but  much  of 
their  talk  turned  on  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  sums,  things  I 
had  a  very  strong  objection  to. 

My  memory  is  abnormally  clear  about  my  interview  with  my 
father  in  another  cab,  driving  home.  Probably  items  of  it  were 
repeated  afterwards  anecdotically,  in  my  hearing. 

I  said  to  him : — "  When  you  sneezes  at  some  money,  how  much 
money  is  it  ? "  He  had  some  difficulty  in  tracing  out  the  original 
of  this  in  our  conversation,  but  he  found  it  out  in  the  end,  and 
gave  a  clear  reply : — "  Anything  under  fifteen  shillings."  I  was 
grateful  to  him  for  his  conciseness. 

The  next  interrogation  I  inflicted  on  him  was  more  difficult. 
"  Why  was  you  a  fool's  toe  ?  Why  wasn't  you  a  fool's  f um  ?  "  It 
required  close  analysis  to  run  this  home.  But  it  was  found  at 
last  in  the  only  mention  my  father  had  made  of  the  cross-eyed 
gentleman's  name.  Had  he  uttered  it  a  second  time,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve I  should  have  solved  the  problem  unassisted.  He  laughed 
all  the  way  home,  after  finding  it  out,  repeating  to  himself  again 
and  again : — "  Prepared  to  be  told  I'm  a  fool's  toe !  "  He  laughed 
till  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

When  we  got  home  I  said  to  him,  "  Shall  we  go  to  Scampling's 
tomorrow?"  in  perfectly  good  faith.  And  he  again  replied  insin- 
cerely : — "  Tomorrow  or  next  day  or  the  day  after  that." 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EJJSTACE  JOHN 

I  WASN'T  going  to  let  my  father  off  about  Campling's,  taxing 
him  each  day  with  his  perfidy.  He  assigned  reasons  for  it  of  the 
baldest  insufficiency.  When,  next  day,  I  asked  him,  "  Why  wasn't 
me  and  you  went  to  Scampling's  today?  "  he  replied  without  shame, 
as  far  as  I  saw,  "  Because  me  is  the  accusative  case  of  the  pronoun 
I " ;  and,  when  I  repeated  my  question  in  another  form  twenty-four 
hours  later,  he  took  a  mean  advantage  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  found  myself,  saying : — "  Because  Scampling's  don't  care 
about  little  boys  that  take  too  much  cake  at  one  mouthful."  I  was 
obliged  to  accept  these  as  sound  reasons,  because  I  could  not  meet 
the  gravamen  of  their  contained  accusations.  But  when  on  the 
third  day  I  was  put  off  with,  "  Because  you're  kicking  holes  in  your 
father's  trousers";  my  suspicions  of  ill-faith  became  irrepressible 
and  I  said,  "  That  is  not  a  question  to  my  answer,"  a  perversion 
of  a  reproach  often  addressed  to  myself. 

Varnish  interposed  upon  this,  with  an  absurd  pretext  that  it  was 
possible  to  carry  on  communication  with  me  without  the  knowledge 
of  others  present  in  the  flesh.  My  father  was  supposed  to  be  un- 
aware of  a  short  homily  she  addressed  to  me,  to  the  effect  that  no 
young  gentleman  of  the  better  class  ever  indulged  in  such  a  dis- 
respeck  as  contradict  his  father.  She  was  surprised  and  shocked, 
nothing  in  my  extraction  or  bringing  up  having  warranted  an 
anticipation  of  such  conduct.  It  was  time  and  plenty  I  learned 
to  behave,  in  order  to  deserve  certain  privileges  now  accorded  to 
me.  For  instance,  no  renegade  against  the  traditions  of  his  family 
could  be  received  in  Society,  which  couldn't  abide  such  goings  on, 
notoriously.  Most  young  gentlemen's  mars,  on  hearing  of  such 
transgressions,  would  at  once  say  they  wasn't  to  be  allowed  to 
play  with  Adaropposite  in  the  Square  that  afternoon.  This  was 
the  young  lady  properly  named  Ada  Fraser,  and  her  familiar  name 
given  above  was  intended  to  convey  her  provenance  as  well.  For 
her  father  and  mother  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  Square,  and 
her  mother  played  on  the  piano. 

Campling's  evaporated,  unfulfilled.  I  was  chagrined,  because  I 
had  made  some  parade  of  my  approaching  visit  there,  in  conversa- 

33 


34  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

tion  with  this  same  Ada  Fraser,  in  the  Square — conversation 
which  Varnish  denounced  as  rude.  Vainglorious  would  have  been 
a  better  chosen  expression.  It  consisted  of  boastful  statements  on 
either  part,  every  such  statement  laying  a  more  emphatic  claim 
than  the  one  it  outfaced  to  greater  social  influence,  more  extensive 
premises,  larger  households,  wider  information,  superior  furni- 
ture, longer  hours  of  study,  more  learned  instructors,  more  courtly 
manners,  a  completer  solvency? — all  man  can  covet,  in  short — on 
the  part  of  the  Pascoes  and  the  Erasers  respectively.  On  these 
terms,  I  think  Ada  and  I  enjoyed  each  other's  society. 

Possibly  this  relation  had  its  origin  in  a  denial  of  mine,  early 
in  our  acquaintance,  that  Ada's  name  could  possibly  be  Fraser. 
I  had  very  strong  grounds  for  doubting  it,  but  they  are  difficult 
to  explain.  I  will  however  see  what  I  can  do. 

When  very  young  indeed  I  had  heard  the  name  Fraser  applied 
in  a  way  no  English  dictionary,  I  am  sure,  warrants.  u  Striggits 
and  slammons,  yes !  " — these  words  were  Varnish's — "  Frasers  quite 
another  thing,  and  on  no  account,  especially  when  a  clean  cloth." 
Cast  over  in  your  mind  all  your  memories  of  tea  and  bread-and- 
milk  in  the  nursery,  and  see  if  you  can't  identify  these  mysteries. 
.  .  .  You  give  it  up? — well  then,  I  shall  have  to  tell?  Striggits 
and  slammons  were  incidents  in  my  refreshments,  foreign  to  the 
nature  of  the  lixivium  they  occurred  in.  The  former  were  twiggy, 
the  latter  leafy.  But  frasers,  strange  to  say,  were  those  by-products 
of  The  Milk,  that  float  in  its  surface;  and  being  skimmed  off  with 
a  spoon,  are  deposited  by  Law  and  Order  in  the  slop-basin,  or  at 
least  in  the  tray;  but  by  Anarchists  on  the  cloth,  and  a  dreadful 
mess  made,  you  never! — that  is,  if  you  were  Varnish. 

Even  now,  when  I  accommodate  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  an 
unsuccessfully  compounded  cup  of  tea,  it  is  borne  in  upon  me 
that  tea-timbers,  afloat,  are  striggits;  tea-leaves,  on  the  loose, 
slammons;  and,  above  all,  that  the  accidents  of  milk  are  frasers. 
How  can  they  be  anything  else?  Don't  I  know? 

Anyhow,  I  was  so  clear  about  it  at  seven  years  old  that  when 
the  little  girl  in  the  Square  told  me  her  name  was  Ada  Fraser. 
I  scornfully  denied  the  possibility  of  such  a  name  for  any  human 
creature.  A  name  apiece  for  all  things,  and  property  in  any  name 
established  by  priority  of  use — that  was  only  fair  play,  according 
to  me.  My  understanding — like  other  children's — was  in  revolt 
against  the  calling  of  any  two  things  by  the  same  name.  So  a 
precedent  of  mutual  contradiction  was  established  between  me  and 
the  little  girl  in  the  Square,  and  a  warm  friendship  was  founded 
on  it,  although  the  severe  model  of  conversation  it  originated  was 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  35 

never  relaxed  from.  And  it  was,  according  to  Varnish,  rude;  and 
had  she  been  me,  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to  it. 

The  need  for  this  fact  in  my  narrative  now  is  to  explain  an  inti- 
mation I  remember  giving  to  Ada  Fraser  one  morning  in  the 
Square,  some  weeks  probably  after  my  hansom-cab  experience,  to 
the  effect  that  her  father  hadn't  got  six  hundred  pounds  apiece. 
Why  the  event  that  led  to  this  statement  is  dim  in  my  memory, 
and  my  interview  with  Ada  vivid,  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  to  accept 
the  images  of  myself,  Ada,  and  the  large  stone  roller  in  the  Square, 
as  forcible  realities;  while  a  visit  of  Mr.  Stowe,  connected  with 
the  two  pink  pots,  to  my  father  the  evening  before,  has  become  in 
sixty-four  years  two  eyes  pulling  opposite  ways,  and  a  great  deal  of 
laughter  and  congratulations.  All  the  rest  is  oblivion. 

But  I  know  from  my  clearly  remembered  speech  to  Ada,  and 
her  prompt  rejoinder  that  her  father  had  sixty  hundred — and 
what  was  more  our  cook  hadn't  a  tortoise-shell  cat — that  this 
must  have  been  just  after  he  heard  of  the  amazing  sale  of  the  two 
pink  pots  at  auction,  which  was,  as  I  have  always  believed,  the 
beginning  of  our  family  misfortunes. 

As  I  have  since  understood,  a  set  of  Rose-du-Barry  vases  of  this 
shape  had  been  known  to  exist,  with  a  muse  painted  on  each. 
Five  of  these  were  in  the  collection  of  a  Duke,  two  of  a  Marquis. 
Euterpe  and  Calliope  were  missing,  till  they  turned  up — the  very 
self-same  vases! — in  the  box  Mr.  Freeman  unpacked  so  carefully 
that  Sunday  morning  in  Mecklenburg  Square. 

There  was  a  scene  of  wild  enthusiasm  at  Stacpoole's  when  they 
were  brought  to  the  hammer.  My  father  I  believe  could  not 
attend  the  sale,  owing  to  the  tyranny  of  Somerset  House;  but  Mr. 
Stowe  called  in  on  his  way  home  to  congratulate  him  on  the  result. 
The  Duke  and  the  Marquis  had  gone  into  competition,  and  the 
Marquis  had  outbidden  the  Duke,  ''becoming  the  possessor"  of 
Euterpe  and  Calliope  for  the  modest  sum  of  twelve  hundred 
pounds! 

It  is  possible  that  my  own  interest  in  these  developments  would 
have  been  greater,  and  that  I  should  have  kept  a  livelier  memory 
of  their  details,  had  I  not  been  preoccupied  by  a  desire  to  report 
to  Ada  a  confutation  of  a  point  she  had  laid  great  stress  on. 
I  was  absorbed  in  my  anxiety  to  triumph  over  her  with  a  state- 
ment that  my  father  had  denied  the  tortoise-shell  cat  she  had 
claimed  for  her  cook.  He  had  done  so,  in  a  sense,  but  his  in- 
credulity had  been  founded  on  a  misconception,  due  to  my  pronun- 
ciation. When  I  reported  Ada's  words,  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
his  comment  was: — "A  torture-cell  cat! — what  a  hideous  creature! 


36  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Like  the  Inquisition,  exactly."  But  the  misconception  was  my 
own,  not  my  father's ;  for  I  had  imagined  his  denial  which  followed, 
that  such  an  animal  existed,  to  mean  that  Ada's  cook  possessed  no 
cat  at  all.  My  repetition  of  this  to  Ada  made  her  indignant,  and 
strained  our  relations  for  a  time. 

I  read  a  short  while  since  in  the  Sunday  Times — which  is 
fingered  here,  by  waste  old  men  like  me,  as  long  as  the  copy  is 
legible,  and  sometimes  lasts  on  t'ill  its  next  Sunday — that  "  The 
Heliconides,"  originally  painted  for  Madame  de  Courtraie,  had 
been  pooled  by  their  respective  noble  owners,  to  increase  their 
value,  and  sold  by  them  u  for  a  fabulous  sum  " — what  very  dull 
fables  are  told  in  Auction  Rooms ! — to  an  American  gentleman,  who 
was  ready  to  give  them  up  for  double  the  money,  if  English  en- 
thusiasm would  subscribe  to  "  keep  them  in  the  country." 

However,  all  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  know  these  rather 
pretty  little  pots  were  called  "  The  Heliconides  "  which  is,  in  plain 
English,  the  Muses.  And  my  father  got  six  hundred  pounds  apiece 
for  his  two,  less  percentages.  And  no  good  came  of  it. 

Indeed,  these  pots  were  ill-starred  from  the  beginning.  I  could 
not  even  brandish  their  price  in  the  face  of  Ada  Fraser  without 
a  mishap  to  follow.  I  may  say  that  she  and  I  were  torn  asunder, 
if  not  in  consequence  of,  at  least  in  connection  with,  the  sale  of 
the  Heliconides.  No  doubt  this  was  partly  due  to  our  way  of 
dealing  with  the  question  of  their  price.  The  handle  of  the  big 
stone  roller  had  been  so  adjusted  by  its  manufacturer  that  it 
would  not  lie  on  the  ground  normally,  and  when  held  down  sprang 
up,  and  fluctuated  to  equilibrium.  We  availed  ourselves  of  this 
property  as  a  rhythmical  accompaniment  to  a  monotonous  recita- 
tion, in  unison,  of  the  price  of  Euterpe  and  Calliope.  I  cannot  pre- 
tend any  surprise  now  at  the  result  that  came  about.  Ada  Fraser 
got  a  bad  blow  in  the  face  from  the  recoil  of  the  handle,  and  we 
both  howled  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  'Ammersmith,  if  Varnish's 
estimate  was  trustworthy.  It  was  never  corroborated;  but  for  all 
that  Ada's  nurse,  backed  by  authorities  at  home,  decided  against  my 
being  allowed  to  play  with  her,  I  was  that  rough  and  rude.  So 
I  lost  sight  of  Ada.  Now  this  was  very  unjust,  because  the  affair 
of  the  roller-handle  was  at  least  a  joint-stock  iniquity. 

I  suppose  it  was  this  tragedy,  and  my  seeing  Ada  at  a  compulsory 
distance  next  day,  with  diachylum  on  her  nose,  that  made  me 
remember  this  part  of  my  sixth  summer  in  London  more  plainly 
than  the  actual  sequel  of  my  excursion  into  auction-land.  That 
presents  itself  to  me  in  disjointed  fragments.  One  of  these  is  a 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  37 

period  of  mere  crude  jubilation  following  naturally  on  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  sale,  in  the  middle  of  which  my  father's  voice 
appears  to  say  repeatedly,  "  Shan't  believe  it  till  I  see  the  cheque !  " 
and  my  mother's,  "  I  suppose  now  I  shall  be  allowed  a  brougham  and 
not  have  to  tramp."  Both  these  speeches  remain  clearly  enough, 
with  the  meanings  I  ascribed  to  them;  connecting  the  former  with 
the  pattern  on  my  father's  trousers,  the  latter  with  carpet-sweeping, 
owing  to  my  mother's  pronunciation  of  the  word  "  brougham.'' 
Another  later  fragment  is  the  great  offence  my  father  gave  to  my 
mother  by  saying,  "That's  just  like  you,  Caecilia!"  after  reading 
aloud  something  in  Punch,  which  my  mother  seemed  to  think 
the  reverse  of  humorous.  She  captured  the  London  Charivari,  and 
burnt  it,  and  though  I  had  no  doubt  my  father  immediately 
bought  another  copy,  he  hid  it  away  discreetly.  Anyhow,  when 
his  effects  came  to  be  sold — after  the  cause  of  them  was  laid  in  his 
grave — a  complete  set  of  Punch,  from  the  earliest  dawn  till 
the  "  now "  of  that  date,  which  has  since  changed  somehow  to 
forty  years  ago,  was  entered  in  the  auctioneer's  catalogue,  and 
sold  as  perfect.  So  it  must  have  contained  the  deathless  first  lec- 
ture of  Mrs.  Caudle,  which  I  identified  later  as  the  one  that  gave 
my  mother  such  offence. 

From  it,  reasoning  backwards,  I  can  infer  that  my  mother  had 
no  sooner  built  one  castle  in  the  air  with  the  hundreds  paid  for 
the  Heliconides,  than  she  used  them  to  lay  the  foundations  of 
another.  They  played  the  part  of  Mr.  Caudle's  five  pounds,  which 
could  have  bought  black  satin  gowns  and  bonnets  for  the  girls 
and  no  end  of  things,  if  Mr.  Caudle  hadn't  lent  it  to  a  friend. 
But  Mrs.  Caudle  was  a  strong  character,  acting  on  the  courage  of 
her  own  convictions.  My  mother  was  a  weak  one,  and  no  doubt 
needed  the  support  she  received  from  Uncle  Francis  and  Uncle 
Sam,  in  concert  with  whom  her  attacks  on  my  father  became  as 
formidable  as  her  prototype's  on  her  defenceless  mate  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning. 

These  uncles  of  mine  had  shown  some  restlessness  on  the  question 
of  the  ownership  of  the  treasure  trove.  But  I  suppose  the  fact 
that  the  house  in  Mecklenburg  Square  had  been  settled  on  my 
mother  at  her  marriage — without  reservation  as  to  its  contents, 
which  were  I  suppose  presumed  to  be  of  no  value — appeared  con- 
clusive at  this  time,  and  this  restlessness  never  came  to  maturity. 
Only,  they  were  not  going  to  let  the  windfall  alone.  They  would 
have  a  finger  in  the  pie. 

I  suppose  my  own  powers  of  observation  were  growing  rapidly 
at  this  point,  so  clearly  do  I  begin  to  recollect  some  of  the  con- 


38  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

versation  of  my  seniors.  But,  quite  possibly,  what  seems  to  my 
memory  now  to  belong  to  a  single  occasion,  may  be  several  sub- 
stantially identical  conversations  rolled  into  one.  It  does  not 
matter.  I  write  it  as  I  recollect  it. 

On  one  occasion  I  recall  distinctly  this  speech  of  my  Uncle 
Sam's : — "  Your  husband,  Caecilia,  will  be  a  wise  man,  and  consult 
his  own  interests,  if  he  does  as  I  tell  him.  Just  let  him  look  at 
this  little  windfall  as  a  nest  egg,  and  'andle  it  as  Capital."  I 
remember  the  words  of  this,  and  could  almost  reconstruct  the 
substance  of  the  homily  which  followed,  one  of  the  sort  I  have 
already  indicated,  a  review  of  the  great  successes  that  would  have 
attended — might  even  still  attend — my  father's  course  in  life  if, 
instead  of  letting  himself  be  guided  by  mysterious  precepts  of 
some  moral  code  which,  for  any  definition  of  it  that  came  into 
the  conversation,  might  have  been  anything  from  the  Vedas  to 
Virgil's  Eclogues,  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  tutored  by  practical 
men  of  the  world;  who  knew  something  of  life,  and  had  escaped 
the  baneful  influences  of  Ideas  and  Sermons.  I  am  not  responsible 
for  the  vagueness  of  my  uncle's  methods  of  discussion,  but  I 
vouch  for  the  accuracy  of  my  report. 

"  Your  husband,  Csecilia,"  said  my  Uncle  Francis,  when  his 
turn  came,  speaking  as  though  he  had  just  settled  off  a  number  of 
other  ladies'  husbands,  "  your  husband,  with  his  great  talents  and 
faculties  and  things,  might  have  had  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, years  ago,  and  be  looking  forward  to  an  Under-Secretaryship 
now.  If  he'd  listened  to  me!  Don't  take  my  word  for  it!  /  ain't 
anybody.  But  just — you — go — to  any  Club  in  London,  and  see  if 
they  won't  tell  you  the  same !  "  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  my  mother, 
expecting  to  see  her  start  at  once.  And  I  felt  very  curious  about 
the  result,  because  I  only  knew  of  Clubs  in  connection  with  their 
King  and  Knave  and  so  on,  in  Beggar-my-neighbour.  But  my 
mother  sat  still1 — something,  as  I  think  now,  as  a  balloon  remains 
quiet  to  be  inflated.  My  Uncle  Francis  added  a  postscript,  to  en- 
dorse his  rather  boastful  modesty,  repeating  more  than  once: — 
"Don't  let  what  I  say  go  for  anything."  He  then  inducted  a 
bystander  into  the  conversation,  saying: — "Here's  little  Kidneys. 
Ask  little  Kidneys.  He's  a  practical  man.  He'll  tell  you!  Don't 
mind  me." 

Mr.  Tom  Skidney,  to  whom  my  uncle  referred,  was,  like  my 
mother  and  my  sisters  and  myself,  a  Sunday  afternoon  visitor  at 
my  grandmother's  suburban  villa  at  Highbury.  It  was  suburban 
in  those  days,  and  fowls  clucked  there  in  the  coach-house  yard, 
about  new-laid  eggs,  with  perfect  sincerity.  And  small  boys  and 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  39 

girls  might  walk  carefully  up  the  avenues  of  the  strawberry -beds, 
and  gather  the  big  ones  into  a  basket  lined  with  grape-leaves  out 
of  the  hothouse;  cnly  not  to  eat  more  than  three  themselves,  till 
after  dinner.  One  has  a  happy  faculty  of  recollecting  the  summer 
days  of  one's  childhood,  and  my  memories  of  Highbury  are,  briefly 
— that  it  was  summer  there! 

I  don't  think  Mr.  Tom  Skidney  appreciated  his  opportunities 
in  the  country;  at  least,  not  as  one  would  have  supposed  a  town- 
sparrow  from  the  Inner  Temple  might  have  done.  For  he  sat 
indoors  and  drank  whiskey-and-water  with  my  uncles,  as  long  as 
they  remained  with  him,  and  by  himself  when  they  forsook  him. 
When  appealed  to  by  my  Uncle  Francis,  as  above,  he  was  already 
consuming  whiskey-and-water,  though  it  was  quite  early  in  the 
day,  and  of  course  smoking.  He  did  not  seem  prepared  to  risk 
his  reputation  for  sagacity  by  giving  a  definite  opinion.  He 
blinked  and  tittered  slightly,  and  then  said : — "  Ah !  "  It  was  not 
much;  but  my  Uncle  Francis  appeared  to  accept  it  as  a  reinforce- 
ment of  his  view,  saying: — "You  see  what  little  Kidneys  thinks. 
Now  there's  a  man,  Cecilia,  whose  opinions  are  worth  having!" 
He  stopped  in  a  sort  of  perpetual  sentry-go  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  an  opened  hand  extended  towards  Mr.  Skidney,  as 
though  to  lay  the  expanse  of  a  great  mind  open  to  a  world  in 
search  of  good  counsel.  "  He's  no  mere  theorist,"  he  added. 
<l  What  he  says  he  means."  My  Uncle  Sam  remarked  collaterally 
that  there  was  no  psalm-singin'  about  little  Tommy.  Any  one 
could  see  that  without  gettin'  off  his  chair.  And  my  Uncle  Francis 
assented  to  this  with  a  screwed  up  face  of  astuteness,  and  so  many 
nods  that  an  extremely  long  pinch  of  snuff  he  took  was  made 
intermittent,  and  I  noticed  its  resemblance,  both  in  time  and  tune, 
to  the  prolonged  cluck  of  a  hen  in  the  stableyard,  heard  through 
the  open  window. 

I  was  too  young  to  be  discouraged  by  what  I  now  perceive  to 
be  a  fatal  lack  of  consecutiveness  in  my  uncles.  I  swallowed 
their  remarks  whole  and  was  deeply  impressed.  But  I  could  see 
that  Mr.  Skidney  did  not  rise  to  the  occasion,  and  did  nothing  to 
confirm  the  testimonials  they  had  given.  He  picked  up  and  let 
fall  a  leg  he  had  crossed  on  its  fellow,  by  the  pattern  of  a  Ian™ 
plaid  trouser:  his  finger  and  thumb  choosing  the  same  incident  in 
the  pattern  to  hold  by.  but  always  at  different  points  in  it;  and  he 
contrived,  by  pulling  one  whisker,  to  twist  his  cigar  aside  and 
partly  elose  the  eye  above  it.  It  did  not  improve  his  appenrance. 
I  do  not  dwell  on  these  details  to  show  how  closely  children  notice 
small  things  in  their  seniors — that  you  know  already — but  to. 


40  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

convey  how  attentively  I  was  watching  Mr.  Skidney  for  some 
discharge  of  judicial  brilliance,  some  intellectual  firework  that 
never  came. 

But  what  did  that  matter  after  all,  if  my  mother  saw  no  need 
for  it?  I  watched  for  the  firework  no  longer  when  my  mother 
said,  "  I  tell  you  what  7  should  like.  I  should  like  Nathaniel 
himself  to  hear  that  opinion  of  Mr.  Skidney's,"  with  such  a  tone 
of  deep  conviction  of  its  existence,  that  I  could  not  but  infer  that 
it  must  have  been  somehow  expressed,  though  unperceived  by  me 
on  account  of  my  youth.  Mr.  Skidney  may  be  said  to  have  begun 
to  try  to  shake  his  head  in  a  deprecatory  manner,  but  to  have 
failed  in  doing  so  from  want  of  force  of  character.  During  his 
effort  my  uncle  drew  a  breath  of  solid  snuff,  presumably,  into  his 
lungs;  a  sostenuto  note  this  time,  and  fixed  Mr.  Skidney  with 
an  eye  half -closed  by  the  opening  of  his  nostrils  to  admit  the  snuff. 

But  Mr.  Skidney  was  not  capable  of  anything  but  an  embarrassed 
taciturnity,  tempered  by  a  weak  smile.  My  Uncle  Francis  ac- 
counted for  this  by  saying  that  Kidneys  was  a  deep  card,  and  it 
was  very  difficult  to  get  any  change  out  of  him.  My  Uncle  Sam 
observed  that  he  was  a  "  fly  customer."  I  associated  this  vaguely 
with  the  fly  we  had  come  in  that  Sunday  (as  was  our  practice), 
that  was  to  call  for  us  again  at  five  punctually  to  take  us  back  to 
Bloomsbury. 

I  remember  feeling  deeply  thankful  that  no  arrangement  seemed 
to  follow  for  Mr.  Skidney  to  accompany  us  back  to  Mecklenburg 
Square.  I  had  feared  my  mother  might  have  wanted  him  at  home 
straightway,  to  impress  my  father  with  that  opinion,  which  I 
had  no  doubt  had  been  clear  to  her,  although  I  had  somehow 
missed  it. 

I  hope,  as  before,  that  four-fifths  of  the  foregoing  is  not  concoc- 
tion of  the  intrinsically  probable,  supplied  after  the  fact  by 
Memory,  in  revolt  against  defeat.  If  it  is,  it  is  only  false  in  the 
piecing  together;  every  constituent  item  is  true  in  itself.  I  have 
no  objection  to  its  being  thought  fiction — why  should  I  have  any? 
Let  it  be  considered  to  be  what  I  groundedly  suppose  to  have  hap- 
pened; only  make  the  grounds  strong  enough. 

This  recrudescence  of  doubt,  cast  by  myself  on  my  own  trust- 
worthiness— or  as  I  see  folk  say  in  these  days  "  reliability  " — is 
perhaps  due  to  my  reason  entering  a  protest  against  a  scene  that 
follows  on  the  stage  of  reminiscence.  In  it  my  two  uncles  appear 
as  promoters  of  an  interview  between  my  father,  as  Inexperience 
with  Property  to  invest,  and  Mr.  Skidney  as  Worldly  Sagacity 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  41 

ready  to  give  disinterested  advice.  I  had  not  then  the  penetration 
to  detect  in  their  performance  the  characteristics  of  Wags.  Neither 
had  my  mother,  who  took  every  word  they  uttered  au  pied  de  la 
lettre.  It  is  no  use  trying  to  pretend  she  was  not  a  matter-of-fact 
woman. 

It  was  this  literalness  of  character  that  clothed  my  uncle's 
worldly  philosophy  with  an  importance  that  it  could  never  have 
acquired  or  maintained  for  itself.  Reports  of  their  random-shot 
lucubrations,  as  witnessed  by  the  eyes  of  Faith,  carried  a  weight 
with  my  father  which  he  never  would  have  attached  to  any  of  their 
utterances  had  he  himself  been  present  to  hear  them.  Even  Mr. 
Skidney,  as  delineated  by  my  mother,  assumed  a  judicial  import- 
ance, becoming  under  her  skilful  hands  a  high  Authority  on 
business-matters,  a  past  master  of  Stock  and  Scrip,  a  man  with 
an  overpowering  waistcoat,  unimpeachable  linen,  a  stove-pipe  hat 
above  suspicion,  a  mahogany  office,  and  clerks.  "  Mr.  Waters 
Skidney,"  said  she  to  my  father  in  the  next  conversation  I  heard 
between  them,  "  may  be  reticent — that  I  do  not  deny.  But  his 
responsibility  is  beyond  question.  I  have  never — "  here  my 
mother  reflected  conscientiously  for  a  few  seconds — "  no,  I  think 
I  may  say  I  have  never,  seen  a  countenance  on  which  the  word 
'  Experience  '  was  more  convincingly  written."  My  mother's  man- 
ner stipulated  so  forcibly  for  the  inverted  commas  as  almost  to 
amount  to  upper-case  type.  She  ended  up  an  appreciation  of 
Mr.  Skidney's  character  with : — "  And  I  have  never  in  my  life  met 
with  any  one  more  absolutely  unpretentious." 

I  rather  think  that  a  growing  tendency  of  my  father  to  be 
influenced  by  this  description  of  Mr.  Skidney's  greatness  was 
nipped  in  the  bud  by  its  peroration.  "  I  daresay  he's  all  very  fine," 
said  he.  "  But  what  I  want  to  get  at  is — what  the  dickens  do  your 
brothers  and  their  Mr.  Pigney  want  me  to  do — do — do!" 

"My  mother  appeared  to  me  to  strengthen  the  position  she  had 
partially  endangered,  by  her  reply: — "  Not  to  be  impatient,  for  one 
thing,  Nathaniel!  And  his  name  is  not  Pigney,  but  Skidney." 
I  felt  that  she  was  all  right  again  now  and  that  I  was  a  sinner 
for  not  seeing  that  my  father  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  I  can  tell  you  and  your  brothers  and  your  Mr.  Squibney  one 
thing,"  said  he,  incorrigibly.  "  I'm  not  going  to  throw  any  of  that 
thousand  pounds  away  on  shares  in  Mount  Bulimy,  that's  flat !  " 

"Who  has  mentioned  Mount  Bulimy?"  said  my  mother,  freez- 
ingly.  "Has  any  one  heard  me  utter  the  words.  Mount  Bulimy? 
Is  there  any  reason  to  suppose  that  my  brothers  know  anything 
whatever  about  Mount  Bulimy?  Or  that  Mr.  Walter  Skidnoy  ever 


42  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

so  much  as  referred  to  Mount  Bulimy?"  My  mother's  line  of 
controversy  was  essentially  rhetorical,  and  her  scornful  repeti- 
tion of  terms  served  two  purposes;  it  overawed  and  silenced  her 
opponent,  and  gave  her  confidence  in  her  own  case.  The  complete 
disconnection  from  every  point  at  issue  of  the  term  repeated  was 
no  drawback  on  the  effectiveness  of  this  method.  I  felt  that  my 
father  was  refuted — hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  upon.  I  was  sorry  for 
him,  as  of  course  I  was  on  his  side  in  everything.  However,  I 
mustered  courage,  and  some  amount  of  confidence  in  his  case,  from 
the  calmness  with  which  he  replied : — "  Not  so  far,  Csecilia ;  they 
will  in  time.  You'll  see."  My  mother  didn't  say  she  wouldn't 
see,  but  contrived  to  make  silence  say  it  for  her.  My  father 
added : — "  I  know  it's  Mount  Bulimy."  Only  he  did  not  speak 
above  his  breath. 

I  suppose  Mount  Bulimy  is  forgotten  now,  after  all  this  length 
of  time.  I  learned  all  about  it  later,  as  soon  as  I  was  old  enough 
to  know  things.  It  was  a  hill  in  Australia  somewhere,  in  the  soil 
of  which  a  squatter  had  detected  gold.  I  had  been  told  by  Varnish 
not  to  squat  on  the  hearth-rug,  but  to  hold  upright  like  a  young 
gentleman.  So  I  had  a  vivid  image  in  my  mind  of  a  squatter  squat- 
ting upon  this  hill,  and  detecting  the  gold,  in  profile  against  the 
sky.  Now  at  the  time  of  writing,  this  hill  had  been  raging  on 
the  Stock  Exchange.  And  the  verb  is  rightly  applied ;  for  really 
if  Mount  Bulimy  had  broken  out  as  a  volcano,  it  could  not  have 
raged  more  fiercely.  The  Shares  in  the  Company  that  had  bought 
it  from  the  Squatter  went  up  and  down  like  the  Barometer  when 
it  gets  the  bit  in  its  teeth.  Fortunes  were  made  and  lost  over 
Mount  Bulimy  before  an  authenticated  nugget  came  to  confirm  the 
reports  of  its  auriferous  deposits.  I  like  to  repeat  this  expression 
now,  remembering  as  I  do  how  my  father  made  me  say  it  then, 
for  practice  in  elocution,  and  I  said  it  wrong.  "Odoriferous!" 
said  he.  "  That's  a  long  word  for  a  kid  to  know  at  seven.  Say 
it  again,  Eustace  John."  I  tried  it  again  and  I  think  I  must 
have  said  Adariferous,  because  my  mother  said: — "He's  thinking 
of  that  child  in  the  Square." 

I  lost  the  thread  of  that  conversation  because  it  was  nine — 
too  late  for  little  boys  to  be  up — and  my  second  and  third  sisters 
came  to  conduct  me  away  to  bed.  My  eldest  sister  I  know  con- 
sidered that  she  was  entitled  to  stop  up  till  eleven;  as  I  thought 
because  she  was  eleven.  This  fixes  the  date  of  this  conversation  for 
me  as  the  last  half  of  my  seventh  year  at  latest,  as  my  eldest  sister 
was  just  five  years  my  senior.  A  child  remains  eleven  in  the  eyes 
of  its  brothers  and  sisters  until  its  twelfth  birthday.  Had  I  been 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  43 

over  seven  I  could  not  have  had  this  idea.  My  father  had  favoured 
or  originated  it,  in  a  conversation  which  ended  in  a  pledge  to 
myself  that  when  I  was  twenty,  I  should  stop  up  till  twenty.  I 
should  not  care  to  stop  up  till  seventy  now.  Sleep  is  happiness; 
what  else  is? 

Anyhow,  I  went  to  bed  then,  and  heard  no  more  of  Mount  Bulimy 
till  later.  I  heard  a  good  deal  in  the  end,  for  my  uncles  did  mention 
in  time  what  they  had  not  mentioned  so  far.  And  it  was  Mount 
Bulimy. 

I  firmly  believe  that  my  father's  attitude  in  the  conversation 
given  above  was  due  to  an  expiring  effort  of  his  good  Angel  to 
head  him  off  from  the  dangers  of  the  Stock  Exchange.  His  aver- 
sion to  tampering  with  gilt-edged  securities  was  surely  an  instinc- 
tive perception  of  a  red  lamp  ahead  in  the  darkness  that  shrouded 
the  perspective  of  his  line  of  Life.  Why  could  he  not  take  warning? 
His  conduct  seems  to  me  now — to  pursue  the  simile — like  that  of 
those  insensate  railway  engines  that  I  have  so  often  seen,  and  been 
obliged  to  accept  unexplained;  engines  that  have  rushed  headlong 
on  to  what  ought  to 'have  been  destruction,  if  there  had  been  any 
good  faith  at  all  in  signals — motionless  discs  of  scarlet  vermilion 
on  a  background  of  unmeasurable  night.  Engines  that  have  seemed 
to  compound  with  their  consciences  by  the  remorseless  emission 
of  a  deafening  yell,  having  no  apparent  purpose  but  to  insult  the 
understanding  of  outsiders  not  connected  with  the  Company.  Oh, 
that  my  father  had  heeded  his  red  lamps  ahead,  and  modelled  his 
conduct  on  that  of  those  more  tractable  trains  that  slow  down 
even  in  tunnels,  and  stand  still,  suffering  from  their  intestines 
audibly,  until  something  supernatural  clicks  and  the  red  lamps 
turn  green  and  then  they  yell  in  moderation  from  joy,  and  go  on 
chastened ! 

Xot  that  my  father's  disregard  of  his  guardian  Angel's  warning 
— if  it  was  one — was  followed  by  the  Nemesis  financiers  would  have 
regarded  as  grievous !  On  the  contrary,  he  was  accounted  by  his 
friends  a  favourite  of  Fortune,  and  altogether  enviable.  So  far 
from  losing  the  twelve  hundred  pounds  that  at  my  mother's  insti- 
gation he  invested  in  Mount  Bulirmr.  he  doubled,  trebled,  quad- 
rupled it,  within  a  twelvemonth.  What  his  shares  are  worth  now, 
in  the  hands  of  their  present  possessors,  I  do  not  know.  But  for 
all  that,  the  box  that  Mr.  Freeman  unpacked  was  Pandora's  box, 
to  me  and  mine,  and  Mount  Bulimy  was  as  regrettable  a  mountain 
as  the  Venusberg. 


CHAPTEK  V 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  SHALL  write  what  I  write  my  own  way — else  where  would  be 
the  gain,  to  me,  of  having  no  readers,  and  expecting  none?  Having 
said  this,  if  hereafter  any  stray  eye  lights  upon  this  page,  its 
owner  will  know  that  the  way  I  have  just  told  the  substance  of 
my  story,  all  in  a  rush,  was  chosen  of  set  purpose,  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  its  grievously  inartistic  character.  What  does  it 
matter?  What  does  anything  matter?  There  are  the  facts.  But 
for  my  own  share  in  them — the  share  that  further  information, 
later  on,  filled  out — that  is  another  aspect  of  the  case.  And  I 
choose  to  jot  down  piecemeal,  for  my  own  pastime  and  sad  recrea- 
tion— less  sad  now  perhaps  than  the  tale  may  become  as  it  grows 
— just  as  much  or  as  little  of  it  as  I  recollect,  not  pledging  myself 
to  an  exact  chronology.  For  I  cannot  place  the  events  in  their 
order ;  can  only  guess  at  it,  as  they  come  in  independent  flashes. 

A  very  short  flash — perhaps  soon  after  that  visit  to  Highbury 
— shows  me  a  group  consisting  of  my  father,  Mr.  Stowe  from  the 
Auction  Rooms;  a  gentleman  whom  I  recognize  as  possessing  the 
corporation  which  kept  me  concealed  from  its  owner  there,  and 
lastly  myself.  I  now  picture  myself  as  part  of  the  group,  which 
includes  a  small  boy  not  yet  seven,  playing  chess  under  the  table 
without  the  board.  Not  like  Morphy,  be  it  understood,  I  had  the 
men,  and  arranged  them  on  the  carpet,  at  pleasure.  They  fre- 
quently tumbled  down,  keeping  me  busy. 

If  they  had  been  Staunton  men,  wide  enough  to  bridge  the 
corrugations  of  the  carpet,  I  might  have  taken  more  note  of  the 
conversation.  As  it  is,  all  the  recollection  I  can  swear  to  is  that 
in  which  the  stout  gentleman  says,  "  Observe,  I  take  no  responsi- 
bility! Do  as  you  like,  but  don't  quote  me,"  several  times.  Mr. 
Stowe  says,  presently : — "  He  wants  'em  himself.  I  see  it  in  his 
eye.  Don't  you  let  him  have  'em,  Strap !  "  I  may  then  have 
glanced  out  from  under  the  table,  for  I  become  conscious  that  my 
father  is  meshed  in  uncertainties,  and  feeling  about  on  his  face 
for  something  to  reassure.  At  last  he  sees  a  light.  "  After  all,  the 
vases  were  my  wife's.  And  they  were  not  in  the  Settlement,  what- 
ever my  brother-in-law  Francis  may  say."  I  don't  believe  I  heard 
any  more  of  the  conversation,  but  some  inner  monitor  convinces 

44 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  45 

me  that  Mr.  Boethius  then  said,  weightily : — "  On  the  Legal  Aspects 
of  the  case,  my  dear  Sir,  I  venture  no  opinion.  Nice  questions 
may  arise,  at  any  moment."  He  then,  I  feel  sure,  looked  at  his 
watch  and  became  colloquial : — "  All  I  say  is — if  you  don't  close 
with  the  offer,  give  me  the  refusal  of  it." 

I  can  recollect  the  two  visitors  taking  leave  together,  and  Mr. 
Stowe  coming  back  to  lay  one  finger  astutely  on  his  nose,  and  say : — 
"  He  wants  'em  himself,  my  boy!  Don't  you  let  him  have  'em." 
Then  he  departed,  and  my  father  said  "  Hm !  "  quite  articulately  as 
it  is  spelled;  Varnish  came  to  summon  me  to  my  tea,  but  took 
note  of  preoccupation  of  my  father's  mind.  "  Your  par,  he's  got 
his  consider-in'  cap  on,  I  lay,"  was  the  way  she  put  it. 

There  vanishes  that  flash.  Even  so  an  inch  of  Magnesium  wire 
burns  out,  and  leaves  the  darkness  solid. 

The  following  flash  must  have  come  rather  soon,  for  me  to 
connect  it  with  its  predecessor.  Else  I  should  have  forgotten  the 
first,  seeing  that  I  attached  no  meaning  whatever  to  the  con- 
versation I  had  heard.  Meaning  had  to  be  supplied  later;  and  it 
came  to  me,  as  I  suppose,  on  the  occasion  of  my  next  visit  to  my 
grandmother's.  During  a  somewhat  longer  inch  of  the  Magnesium 
light  of  Memory,  I  can  hear  conversation,  as  follows,  between  my 
mother  and  my  uncle  Francis. 

"  Speaking  as  your  Trustee  and  your  professional  Adviser, 
Caecilia.  I  can  only  say  that  it  seems  to  me  sailing  very  near 
the  wind."  My  uncle  took  a  long  pinch  of  snuff  and  repeated 
briefly  at  the  end  of  it: — "Very  near  indeed!"  It  might  have 
been  the  long  pinch's  last  will  and  testament,  and  the  two  sneezes 
that  followed  letters  of  administration.  This  metaphorical  adapta- 
tion is  of  course  recent. 

Said  my  mother : — "  I  cannot  question  your  opinion,  Francis.  To 
do  so  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  presumptuous.  But  I  think 
you  are  entirely  wrong.  And  I  am  convinced  that  further  reflec- 
tion will  show  that  this  is  the  case.  If  you  are  right  in  saying 
that  the  Heliconides  were  in  the  Settlement,  why.  I  ask  you,  did 
you  not  unpack  that  box  as  Trustee,  and  realize  their  value,  with 
a  view  to  its  investment  in  a  fund  sanctioned  by  the  Lord 
Chancellor?  I  am  merely  repeating  Nathaniel's  words.  I  have  no 
claim  to  an  opinion  of  my  own,  and  pronounce  none.  But  that  you 
are  entirely  mistaken  I  have  not  a  shadow  of  doubt."  After  which 
or  something  uncommonly  like  it,  my  mother  embarked  on  a 
dignified  silence,  visibly. 

"  That's  Nathaniel's  theory,"  said  my  uncle.  "  That's  your 
husband  all  over,  Csecilia."  My  belief  now  is  that  my  uncle, 


46  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

not  feeling  secure  in  his  position,  was  glad  to  interrupt  the  thread 
of  the  argument,  and  turn  it  to  a  sort  of  chronic  analysis  of  my 
father's  character  which  he  and  my  mother  were  fond  of  ringing 
changes  on  and  wrangling  over.  "  You'll  never  persuade  any  man  of 
any  standing  at  the  Bar  to  subscribe  to  that  theory.  It's  no  use, 
Ca?cilia — don't  tell  me!  Your  husband's  a  man  I  look  at  all 
round,  Caecilia.  A  man  of  extraordinary  capacity — of  remarkable 
capacity — for  erudition  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  .  but ! — how- 
ever, you  know  what  I'm  going  to  say,  Csecilia," — here  my  mother 
inserted  a  sigh  and  a  nod — "  but  paradoxical! "  After  which  my 
uncle  took  more  snuff  than  seemed  reasonable  or  necessary,  putting 
his  nose  from  side  to  side  to  receive  it,  but  keeping  his  eyes  on 
my  mother  as  he  slouched  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  he  ended 
with  a  short  interrogative  syllable,  most  nearly  describable  as 
the  "  hein !  "  of  a  French  author,  with  the  last  two  letters  deleted. 

'*  Nathaniel  is  paradoxical,  as  a  rule,"  said  my  mother,  "  but  in 
this  case  he  has  acted  judiciously.  And  you  cannot  deny  that  it 
was  your  own  advice,  Francis.  Never  mind  the  boy  now!  " 

But  my  uncle  was  glad  to  be  interrupted  by  the  boy,  as  he  was 
not  in  a  position  to  meet  the  indictment.  He  conceded  a  volume 
on  Zoology  to  me,  in  response  to  my  application  for  it,  and  set 
me  going  with  a  picture  of  a  Wanderoo,  by  request.  Then  he 
turned  to  my  mother,  and  said: — "Let's  see1 — where  were  we? — 
Oh — well — it  doesn't  matter!  Nathaniel's  Bought  the  shares,  and 

paid  for  'em "  He  continued  talking,  but  I  suppose  the 

Wanderoo  had  fascinated  me,  or  the  Magnesium  wire  is  exhausted, 
for  I  can  remember  nothing  more  of  a  tangible  nature.  A  dim 
image  of  the  room  remains,  with  its  superabundance  of  cabinets 
which  I  believe  contained  the  Rear-Admiral's  geological  specimens, 
his  portrait  over  the  chimney-piece,  with  Dresden  China — Galatea 
reposing  on  a  clock — and  miniatures  in  ovals;  Berlin  woolwork 
cushions  and  a  sense  of  frills  and  tassels,  and  last  and  chiefest, 
my  grandmother  herself,  in  gold  spectacles,  seated  in  a  high- 
backed  chair  to  which  she  bore  nearly  the  relations  a  centaur  has 
to  his  horse,  or  rather,  those  his  thoughtful  half  has  to  his  business 
half.  I,  at  least,  conceived  of  her  as  a  fixture,  the  more  so  that  the 
chair  had  wheels,  and  yet  her  dinner  was  brought  to  her  on  a 
tray.  A  centaur's  advantages  are  obvious — he  never  can  be  under 
any  such  necessity. 

I  suppose  that  on  this  occasion  my  mother  and  Uncle  Francis 
had  been  conversing  seriously,  taking  advantage  of  the  absence  of 
company.  For  my  Uncle  Sam  had  gone  to  Wexford  on  business,, 
and  no  casual  of  the  Mr.  Skidney  class  was  to  the  fore.  My  elder 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  47 

sister  Ellen  was  showing  her  governess  over  the  estate,  this  lady 
having  come  with  us  this  time  instead  of  Varnish,  making  four  in 
the  fly.  Her  name,  Helen  Evans,  was  a  constant  perplexity  to  me, 
owing  to  Varnish's  habits  in  religious  imprecation — of  a  mild 
sort,  you  understand.  "  Merciful  'Evans,  Master  Eustace,  wherever 
can  you  expect?"  associated  itself,  with  this  young  lady  quite  as 
much  as  it  did  with  the  final  home  of  subservient  and  mean- 
spirited  little  boys,  who  always  meet  the  convenience  of  their 
guardians. 

A  reaction  from  this  association  tended  to  prejudice  me  against 
her;  as  I  now  see,  most  unfairly;  although  she  certainly  fostered 
my  hostility  by  a  disciplinarian  attitude  towards  persons  of  my 
age  and  sex.  In  a  chronic  feud,  which  I  assumed  to  exist  as  a 
matter  of  course  in  my  family — and  to  spread  itself  throughout 
society,  for  that  matter — Miss  Evans  ranked  among  my  opponents. 
My  father,  Varnish,  and  my  sister  Grace,  the  youngest,  were  "  on 
my  side."  The  rest  of  my  flesh  and  blood,  and  Miss  Evans,  repre- 
sented an  opposing  army,  of  which  I  accepted  my  mother  as  com- 
mander-in-chief.  The  casus  belli  was  left  undefined,  as  also  the 
nature  of  operations  and  the  class  of  armament.  Preparation 
stopped  short  at  scheduling  the  combatants.  Everybody  was  on 
my  side,  or  that  other  side,  less  clearly  definable.  But  feeling  did 
not  run  so  high  between  me  and  any  other  member  of  this  opposing 
league,  as  Miss  Evans.  My  recollection  is,  that  we  showed  an  un- 
christian spirit.  I  did,  certainly;  for — if  I  am  not  mistaken — I 
bit  Miss  Evans.  Not  of  course,  as  aliment,  but  as  an  act  of 
tyrannical  self-assertion,  coupled  with  a  desire  to  draw  blood. 

I  have  only  referred  to  this  young  lady  at  this  point  to  account 
for  her  sudden  appearance  as  an  aftermath  of  my  checked  recollec- 
tion of  this  interview.  For  as  my  memory  recalls  the  door  into 
the  garden,  her  image  comes  in  and  says : — "  Oh,  I  beg  pardon ! 
I  didn't  know.  Shall  I  go?"  To  which  my  mother  replies  in 
a  dignified  tone: — "Shall  you  go?  Miss  Evans?  Why  should 
you  go?  On  no  account  dream  of  doing  any  such  thing."  And 
Miss  Evans  says: — "Oh,  I  didn't  know.  How  was  I  to  tell?" 
Then  my  grandmother  speaks  from  her  chair  thus: — "Yes — you 
come  in,  Miss  Helen  Evans,  if  that's  your  name,  and  stop  'em 
quarrelling."  Which  convinces  me  that  the  blank  in  my  memory 
conceals  some  spirited  passages  between  my  mother  and  her  brother, 
and  that  I  had  found  the  Wanderoo  very  engrossing. 

My  grandmother  had  a  very  prepotent  manner,  and  used  to  say 
what  she  liked.  Every  one  was  rather  afraid  of  her.  Indeed  I 
had  heard  Miss  Evans  refer  to  her  as  an  old  spitfire.  At  the  time 


48  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  attached  little  weight  to  her  doing  so,  as  I  understood  the 
expression  -to  be  connected  with  the  fireplace,  used  as  a  spittoon; 
a  subject  that  had  been  under  discussion  between  myself  and 
Varnish,  not  so  long  previously.  Looking  back  now,  with  the 
experience  of  a  lifetime  of  the  epithetics  my  fellow-creatures  apply 
to  one  another  to  relieve  their  own  feelings,  I  am  inclined  to  class 
this  one  as  strained  and  exaggerated.  My  grandmother,  according 
to  Varnish,  had  a  hoverbearin'  way  with  her  of  standing  no 
nonsense,  and  whatever  could  you  expect  at  eighty-seven,  and 
property  in  the  funds?  Varnish  had  no  patience  with  people  find- 
ing fault,  and  giving  themselves  airs.  Miss  Evans  was  the  people, 
this  time;  and  though  Varnish  was  not  herself  inclined  to  be 
charitable  to  my  grandmother,  her  objections  to  Miss  Evans  were 
still  stronger.  Even  in  those  early  days,  Varnish  took  exception 
to  the  owner  even  of  the  finest  head  of  hair  you  ever,  being  so 
keenly  alive  as  was  Miss  Evans  to  which  side  her  bread  was 
buttered.  She  had  not  lived  to  her  time  of  life,  Varnish  said  once, 
apropos  of  Miss  Evans,  to  be  unable  to  tell  a  cat  when  she  saw 
one.  I  thought  Varnish  unfair,  technically.  But  Miss  Evans  was 
no  favourite  of  mine,  for  all  that. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

WHETHER  I  did  or  did  not  gather  at  the  time  a  clear  conception 
of  the  events  that  followed  the  discovery  and  sale  of  the  Heliconides 
I  cannot  say  now,  nor  does  it  signify.  If  I  did  not  do  so  then,  the 
knowledge  came  to  me  not  very  much  later.  And  it  amounted  to 
this: — that  my  father,  coming  into  possession  of  a  sum  of  money 
shot  out  of  the  blue,  that  he  conceived  he  had  a  sort  of  right  to 
play  ducks  and  drakes  with,  did  so  by  purchasing  for  £1,200  what 
had  a  few  days  before  stood  in  the  market  at  10,000,  acquiring 
thereby  a  considerable  fraction  of  a  gold  mountain  in  Australia, 
trumpeted  as  Ophir  and  Golconda  in  one,  until  one  day  came  a 
counter  blast  that  shattered,  or  seemed  to  shatter,  its  pretensions 
to  be  either.  Mount  Bulimy  had  burst,  as  a  bubble — a  worse  than 
South  Sea  bubble — and  hundreds  of  investors  were  ruined.  Its 
scrip  was  so  much  wastepaper,  and  remained  so  until  a  suspicion 
grew  that  it  was  being  bought  up  by  one  or  two  obscure  firms  of 
brokers  on  behalf  of  the  very  speculators  who  had  been  denouncing 
it  as  the  most  palpably  fraudulent  of  Golcondas. 

I  suspect  that  one  of  the  most  active  manipulators  of  the  stock 
and  share  market  in  this  matter  was  the  massively  solvent  gentle- 
man whose  corporation  I  had  seen — not  himself — at  the  Auction 
Room.  I  had  heard  his  name  since  then;  it  was  Mr.  Seth  Boethius, 
of  the  banking  firm  of  McCorgnodate,  Boethius  and  Tripp.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  leniently  of  this  gentleman,  for  he  could  easily 
have  scared  my  father  off  his  prize,  and  bought  it  himself.  To  be 
sure  it  was  only  a  small  matter.  He  was  a  five-figure  man,  at  least. 
Besides,  is  it  certain  he  did  not  think  he  was  taking  the  best 
means  of  arriving  at  his  end  without  showing  the  cards  he  held? 
One  gets  cynical  over  these  things. 

Anyhow,  at  the  very  time  that  this  purchase  of  my  father's  was 
hanging  in  the  balance,  a  consignment  of  nuggets  was  on  its 
way  to  Sydney  that  was  to  send  the  demand  for  Mount  Bulimies 
again  up  to  frenzy -point,  and  despair  to  the  hearts  of  former  holders 
who  had  let  them  go  in  panic  for  what  they  would  fetch.  Dogged 
by  bushrangers,  who  never  dared  to  risk  the  trial  of  their  luck 
against  such  a  safety-guard  as  rode  front  and  rear  of  their  precious 
charge;  sleepless — in  the  persons  of  their  responsible  custodians — 

49 


50  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

lest  this  safety-guard  should  round  upon  them,  turn  traitors,  and 
retire  upon  the  proceeds  of  their  enterprise,  these  nuggets  travelled 
over  what  was  then  a  desert  to  Port  Jackson  to  start  on  an  eight 
weeks'  voyage  to  England,  and  convince  the  Stock  Exchange  of 
Golconda.  It  is  strange  to  us,  in  these  days  when  Antipodean  news 
comes  in  an  hour,  to  think  that  old  songs  were  being  grudged  for 
shares  in  Mount  Bulimy  weeks  and  weeks  after  these  testimonials 
to  its  character  had  started. 

However,  they  came — these  lumps  of  irrefutable  gold;  far  too 
heavy  to  sow  claims  with,  however  many  dupes  were  ready  to  buy 
them.  They  came,  and  some  mysterious  telegraphy,  not  only 
•wireless  but  dynamoless,  touched  the  sensitive  nerves  of  Capel 
Court  a  day  before  the  ship  that  brought  them  sighted  land,  and 
caused  my  father  to  say  to  my  mother  over  the  Times  at  break- 
fast :— "  Hullo,  Caecilia,  we've  gone  up  three-fifths !  " 

"  I  will  thank  you,  Nathaniel,"  said  my  mother,  "  to  be  intelli- 
gible. If  you  are  referring  to  your  Australians — as  of  course  you 
are — why  not  say  so !  Is  it  so,  or  not  ?  " 

"  That's  about  it ! "  said  my  father.  And  then  he  kissed  me 
and  my  youngest  sister  and  went  away  to  Somerset  House  in  a 
buoyant  frame  of  mind.  And  my  mother  relaxed  and  showed  satis- 
faction, not  sending  me  back  to  the  nursery,  my  proper  sphere. 

Deep  snow  was  white  on  Mecklenburg  Square  when  this  hap- 
pened. Next  day  it  was  thicker,  and  Mr.  Freeman,  The  Man, 
was  at  his  wits'  end  to  do  down  the  doorsteps  and  the  front  pave- 
ment, and  the  airey  out,  and  clear  the  gutters.  Also  it  was  found 
difficult  to  keep  at  bay  applicants  who  sought  to  substitute  their 
services  for  his.  Then  the  snowflakes  became  bloated ;  and,  though 
they  tempted  the  instructor  of  childhood  to  discourse  on  their 
crystalline  structure,  didn't  hold  up  not  to  say  long  enough  to  make 
any  figure.  The  bloated  snowflakes  and  a  change  in  the  wind,  be- 
tween them,  brought  about  a  steady  deluge  of  lukewarm  water  from 
above;  and  below,  a  condition  of  things  you  couldn't  get  a  hansom. 
Some  of  my  phraseology  I  borrow  from  Varnish,  not  all. 

However,  this  unattainability  of  hansoms  was  not  universal, 
for  my  father  got  one  to  come  home  from  the  Office,  which  ploughed 
its  way  to  the  door  with  difficulty.  I  remember  his  speech  to  the 
driver,  as  he  handed  him  a  large  silver  coin,  "  You  won't  complain 
of  that,  my  man,"  and  the  driver's  response,  "  Wot'd  I  gain  by 
complainin',  Guvnor?" — not  as  an  expression  of  ingratitude,  but 
of  insight  into  double  entry.  He  would  have  complained,  however 
large  his  fare  had  been,  if  he  had  seen  his  way  to  increasing  it-  But 
a  five-shilling  piece  was  prohibitive.  My  father  laughed  genially. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  51 

Indeed,  he  seemed  to  be  in  the  highest  spirits,  in  spite  of  the 
weather.  He  went  upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  after  eliciting 
from  Watkins,  the  parlour  maid,  who  had  opened  the  door,  her 
thought  that  missis  was  gone  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  He  had  sanc- 
tioned me,  by  passing  crumple,  in  the  passage,  and  I  considered  my- 
self warranted  in  following,  accounting  for  my  conduct  to  Wat- 
kins  by  saying : — "  I'm  going  up  to  par."  I  am  telling  the  truth, 
though  you  may  not  believe  it,  when  I  say  that  it  was  this  speech 
of  mine  that  made  my  recollection  of  what  I  heard  through  the 
open  door  of  my  mother's  room  hold  good  until  I  was  old  enough  to 
know  what  it  meant.  Here  it  is : 

/  "  Hullo — I  say,  Caecilia,  where  are  you  ?    What  do  you  think  ? 
.    .    .    What — what's  that?    Anything  wrong?"  .    .    . 

"  Only  the  start ! — the  start  you  gave  me.  .  .  .  Oh  no — I  shall 
be  quite  right  if  you  will  only  have  patience  for  one  moment." 
Presumably  my  father  had  it;  for  after  my  idea  of  a  moment  my 
mothef  said: — "Yes,  now!  Only  tell  me  gently.  Is  there  any 
occasion  for  so  much  excitement?  What  is  it?" 

"  Only  the  Australians- — the  Shares  I  mean ; "  said  my  father, 
with  all  the  bloom  taken  off  his  announcement.  "  They've  gone  up 
to  Par."  It  was  the  identity  of  this  phrase  with  mine — but  sounded, 
as  one  might  say,  in  a  different  key — that  stamped  the  event  on  my 
memory.  He  went  on,  bewildering  me  to  find  a  meaning  for: — 
'"  They  won't  stop  there.  They'll  keep  on  going  up."  I  thought 
over  this  so  hard  that  I  missed  some  dialogue.  The  next  I  remem- 
ber is  that  my  mother  said  faintly : — "  I  think  perhaps  a  small 
dose  might  do  me  good.  It  never  does  any  harm  just  before 
dinner."  I  did  not  wait  to  see  whether  Dr.  Endicott  was  effectual. 
For  I  went  upstairs.  But  upon  my  word  I  can't  say  whether  I 
did  this  because  the  shares  went  on  going  up,  or  because  my 
supper  awaited  me.  It  might  have  been  either.  I  had  not  the 
remotest  idea  what  my  father's  communication  meant.  Sharp 
little  boys  live  in  a  world  of  misapprehensions  as  perverse  as  the 
foregoing,  but  they  forget  them  wholesale,  until  some  long  en- 
forced leisure,  late  in  life,  sets  them  a-thinking  of  them  retail. 

After  that,  a  sense  of  jubilation  haunts  the  life  I  recollect;  it 
echoes  with  congratulations.  And  even  at  this  length  of  time  I  am 
conscious  of  a  certain  deference  shown  to  my  father  in  many 
quarters,  which  considerably  outran  the  mixture  of  civility  for  a 
Government  official  with  toleration  for  his  personal  weaknesses, 
which  had  been  till  now  the  normal  attitude  of  those  quarters. 
One  of  them  was — or  was  occupied  by — The  Man,  Freeman,  who 
showed  it  by  abasing  himself  before  my  father  in  a  way  which 


52  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  am  sure  The  Observer  of  Human  Nature  would  have  discrimi- 
nated from  the  savage  independence  of  Mr.  Freeman's  earlier  de- 
meanour towards  his  employer.  In  my  father's  absence  his  varia- 
tion of  manner  took  another  form,  conveying  his  indignation  at 
the  unequal  distribution  of  wealth  among  classes. 

I  am  still  very  fond  of  watching  the  shine  come,  when  boots 
are  cleaned.  In  those  days  it  was  a  special  delight  to  me  to  get 
down  surreptitiously  to  the  back  wash'us  where  stood  the  copper 
with  beadles  in  when  the  lid  was  'took  off,  and  where  the  knives 
were  polished,  on  a  board  baptized  with  something  sandy,  to  see 
Mr.  Freeman  do  the  boots,  and  enjoy  the  dawn  of  their  glory  at 
the  critical  moment.  It  is  possible  I  should  comment  harshly  on 
some  points  in  Mr.  Freeman's  method,  were  I  to  see  it  done  again 
now.  I  infer  this  from  the  fact  that  when  I  was  last  profession- 
ally shined,  on  an  undersized  headsman's  block  in  Soho — many 
years  ago  now — I  did  raise  objection  to  the  adept's  system  of  irriga- 
tion, as  my  delicacy  prompts  me  to  call  it.  He  met  me  with  the 
question : — "  Wot's  the  odds  if  it  'its  ?  "  This  boy  was  a  good  marks- 
man. But  Mr.  Freeman  .  .  .  however,  I  need  not  pursue  that 
subject.  My  presence  in  the  back  wash'us  is  all  the  story  needs, 
and  scraps  of  things  forgotten  come  back  again  with  its  image, 
and  the  memory  of  its  flavour. 

The  voice  of  Cook  comes  back,  with  a  consciousness  that  the 
speaker  has  put  a  leg  of  mutton  down  to  roast  before  a  fire  that 
knows  how  to  roast  it — not  a  Kitchener — and  that  it  is  turning 
both  ways  and  will  soon  perspire  and  hiss.  And  Cook's  voice 
reaches  from  the  kitchen  to  the  wash'us  saying,  as  one  that  seeks 
a  fellow-creature  with  whom  to  share  some  new-found  interest : — 
"  'Ark  at  that,  Mr.  Freeman !  O'ny  to  think  1  " 

But  The  Man  had  been  'arking  already.  The  conversation  to 
which  his  attention  was  solicited,  had  consisted  of  lengths  of 
excited  communication  from  our  housemaid,  Persia, — whose  name  I 
believe  was  Pershore, — but  whom  I  connected  with  Geography,  con- 
ceded to  me  at  intervals  by  Miss  Evans.  Her  tale  had  been  cut 
up  into  these  lengths  by-  Cook's  exclamations,  but  neither  had 
direrted  my  attention  from  the  boots.  The  Man  had  overheard, 
pausing  at  intervals  for  valuable  bits,  like  a  violinist  during  a 
blank  bar  or  two; — a  violinist  in  a  nightmare,  say,  with  his  finger- 
ing badly  handicapped,  and  an  ill-constructed  bow.  And  his  re- 
mark, in  reply  to  Cook,  was : — "  He  won't  give  us  none  of  it,  7  lay !  " 

"P'raps  we  done  nothing  to  deserve  it!"  said  our  housemaid. 
"  Not  you,  at  least,  as  I  account  it,  Mr.  Freeman !  "  Persia  had 
a  housemaidenly  cap  and  ribbons  of  an  effective  sort,  and  was  prone 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  53 

to  address  what  she  had  to  say  by  preference  to  males,  almost  always 
giving  a  personal  turn  to  her  remarks. 

"  Ner  nit  you,  Jumpey,"  said  Cook,  using  a  familiar  name  of 
kitchen  currency.  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  met  Cook's  double 
negative,  or  disjunctive,  in  any  other  mouth. 

Mr.  Freeman  didn't  seem  sure,  without  further  particulars. 
"  Wot  did  you  say  it  mounted  up  to  ? "  said  he. 

"  Six.  Thousand.  Six.  Hundred.  Pounds  and  much  good 
I  hope  it'll  do  him ! "  said  Miss  Persia  in  five  separate  short 
sentences,  with  an  expressive  toss  of  her  head,  conveying  a  sense 
of  vague  religious  precept.  "  How  much  do  you  want  for  yourself, 
Mr.  Freeman  ?  Me  Most,  is  all  7  say !  " 

The  Man  appeared  to  dwell  thoughtfully — through  a  full  blank 
stave  of  nightmare  music — on  the  exact  value  of  his  deserts. 
"  Couldn't  say,  to  a  'apenny,"  was  his  comment,  as  he  recommenced 
bowing.  His  suggestion  seemed  to  be  that  six  thousand  six  hundred 
pounds  might  be  distributed,  without  grave  injustice  either  way, 
between  Cook,  Persia,  and  himself.  But  though  he  seemed  sullen, 
discontented,  and  injured,  I  noticed  that  he  took  special  pains  with 
my  father's  boots.  They  were  to  be  worn  on  the  way  up  in  the 
iWorld. 

I  understood  from  this  that,  somehow  or  other,  my  father  had 
improved  his  relations  with  a  large  sum  of  money  previously  in 
other  hands  than  his — but  of  course  I  was  too  young  to  under- 
stand what  how-or-other.  Also,  that  Mr.  Freeman,  The  Man, 
grudged  it  him  on  grounds  that  I  later  learned  to  speak  of  as 
Communistic.  His  convictions  as  to  the  desirability  of  the  re- 
distribution of  properties  paying  larger  income-tax  than  his  own 
were  the  same  as  yours  and  mine.  But  like  you  and  me,  and  unlike 
the  earlier  apostles  of  redistribution — for  instance,  Jack  Sheppard 
and  Dick  Turpin — he  wanted  it  to  be  done  officially.  His  faith  in 
the  identity  of  Right  with  the  power  of  majorities  sharing  his  own 
opinions,  and  able  to  enforce  them,  would  have  done  credit  to 
enthusiasm  had  he  been  capable  of  it.  But  this  quality  seemed 
in  him  to  take  the  form  of  sulks ;  a  fact  due,  as  I  now  firmly  believe, 
to  the  beverage  that  played  so  large  a  part  in  the  formation  of  his 
character.  He  cultivated  a  sullen  resentment  against  Parliamen- 
tary Government  for  not  placing  himself  and  his  relations  in 
independent  circumstances. 

If  a  change  in  the  deportment  of  The  Man  towards  my  parents 
was  perceived  by  me,  no  wonder  I  noticed  that  of  Society.  Or 
rather,  no  wonder  that  it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  such  a  thing 
existed.  I  am  sure  I  had  never  noticed  it  until  then;  not  having, 


54  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

so  far,  gone  beyond  the  division  of  the  human  race  into  four  classes, 
myself,  my  family,  other  people,  and  black  men.  This  last  sub- 
section had  been  forced  upon  me  by  impostors  with  a  taste  for 
cheerful  music,  and  a  strange  faculty  of  playing  tambourines  with 
all  portions  of  their  persons;  but  impostors,  past  all  question,  who 
had  never  been  within  a  thousand  miles  of  Kentucky  in  their 
lives,  for  all  the  parade  of  hardship  they  made  because  they  would 
never  see  it  again.  When  the  idea  of  Society  began  to  germinate 
in  my  mind,  I  excluded  these  nomads,  for  a  reason.  My  first 
inferences  on  the  subject  were  based  on  a  remark  of  my  father, 
coming  home  and  welcomed  by  me: — "  More  Society,  Eustace  John, 
more  Society!  And  more!  And  more!!  And  more!!!"  At 
each  repeat  he  inspected  the  visiting  card  of  a  caller  on  the  side- 
table  of  the  entrance  hall.  Whereupon  I,  noting  the  spotless  sur- 
faces, and  grasping  the  general  purpose  of  these  accretions,  did 
then  and  there  exclude  Ethiopian  Serenaders  from  Society,  solely 
on  the  ground  of  the  difficulty  they  would  have  in  keeping  cards 
clean.  For  I  had  decided  that  their  black  came  off,  and  had  to 
be  renewed.  Society,  however,  became  then  a  name  for  such  other 
people,  not  black,  as  had  this  unaccountable  card  habit. 

Gradually  facts  assumed  form,  and  I  connected  together  all  the 
signs  of  my  family's  increased  prosperity,  and  referred  them  defi- 
nitely to  their  origin,  stock-jobbing.  At  first  nothing  very  startling 
resulted,  though  I  became  aware  of  luxury  in  the  quality  of  my 
garments.  It  was  not  altogether  welcome,  because  though  it  had 
been  conveyed  to  me  by  Varnish  often  enough  that  little  boys 
spoiling  their  clothes  was  sinful,  her  intimations  had  been  per- 
functory— certainly  not  heartfelt — and  had  been  accepted  by  me 
in  that  sense.  I  believe  I  should  have  been  greatly  consoled  for 
an  accentuation  of  discipline  which  accompanied  them,  if  I  had 
still  been  in  a  position  to  exhibit  them  to  Adaropposite;  not — please 
observe — as  the  gentleman  humming-bird  makes  the  most  of  his 
appearance  to  fascinate  his  lady-love,  but  in  order  that  I  might 
taunt  Ada  with  the  non-possession  of  a  velvet  tunic  with  sugar- 
loaf  buttons,  a  cap  whose  peak  shone  like  a  mirror,  and  which 
boasted  what  Varnish  called  tossles.  It  is  so  long  ago  that  I  can't 
tell  really  what  these  caps  were  made  of,  but  I  know  that  when  they 
came  from  the  shop  I  could  see  my  face  in  them,  and  that  they  smelt 
clean,  as  though  they  had  been  sterilized;  and  that  I  still  retain 
a  consciousness  of  braid,  without  locating  it.  However,  this  was 
in  the  period  of  my  ostracism  from  Ada,  which  continued  for  a 
long  time  after  the  wound  on  her  nose  was  only  a  scar. 

I  was  not  however  destined  then  to  a  permanent  separation  from 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  55 

Ada ;  for  her  mother,  who  played  the  piano,  and  her  father,  who  was 
at  the  Bar,  were  human,  and  subject  to  human  impressions  and 
weaknesses.  My  inquisitiveness  one  day  found  in  the  china  dish 
their  cards,  two  Mr.  Montague  Frasers  quite  flat,  and  one  Mrs. 
Montague  Fraser  doubled  back  at  the  knees,  or  thereabouts.  They 
caused  my  mother  to  say  to  my  father — for  I  heard  her  myself : — 
"  Those  Fraser  people  have  called  from  across  the  Square.  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  return  it."  Whereupon  my  father  said 
to  me,  hanging  on  his  shoulder: — "There  now,  Eustace  John. 
Now  you'll  be  allowed  to  play  with  Adaropposite  again."  But  my 
mother  saw  exception  to  be  taken  to  this : — "  I  have  never  said  so, 
Nathaniel.  But  I  suppose  it  must  be  as  you  say."  She  then 
added,  discontinuously : — "  For  my  part  I  always  thought  the 
people  gave  themselves  airs.  However,  just  as  you  please!"  My 
father  said,  conciliatorily : — "  Well,  my  dear !  Montague  F.'s  a 
rising  man  at  the  Bar,  and  knows  no  end  of  good  stories.  And 
his  wife  plays  the  piano."  My  mother  said: — "Then  as  you  wish 
it.  Nathaniel,  I  will  call,  in  the  brougham,  tomorrow  afternoon. ' 
For  my  parents  had  by  this  time  become  proprietors  of  a  one- 
horse  vehicle,  and  I  knew  it  by  its  name.  It  lived  in  a  stable  which 
really  belonged  to  our  house,  and  which  in  our  soberer  days  had 
been  let  to  an  affliction  who  never  yielded  up  his  rent  except  under 
threat  of  ejectment.  A  frantic  scheme  for  dressing  up  Mr.  Free- 
man as — suppose  we  say,  speaking  broadly — Tattersall,  and  entrust- 
ing him  with  this  vehicle  and  its  horse,  fell  through  in  favour 
of  the  appointment  of  a  young  man  of  superhuman  calmness, 
named  Mapleson,  whose  mechanical  respect  for  his  employers 
seemed  only  used  to  cloak  his  scorn.  My  father  endeavoured  to 
combat  this  by  adopting  with  him  the  manner  of  a  Master  of 
Foxhounds,  and  only  intensified  it.  My  own  opinion  is  that  it  is 
useless  for  a  Human  Creature  to  struggle  against  a  Groom. 

Whether  the  rising  man  at  the  Bar  and  his  wife  who  played 
the  piano  had  been  mesmerized  by  Mr.  Mapleson  and  the  brougham 
I  cannot  say.  I  only  know  that  when  next  I  perceived  Adaropposite 
in  the  Square  no  opposition  was  raised  to  our  joining  company. 
But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Ada's  attitude  was  cold,  and  that  she 
said  with  a  painful  candour: — "I  don't  like  you." 

I  rejoined,  with  a  strong  common  sense  which  other  young  men 
in  like  circumstances  might  do  well  to  reflect  on : — "  Then  I  shan't 
play."  Yet  we  did  not  part  then  and  there,  as  an  older  couple 
might  have  done,  but  stood  in  undisturbed  mutual  contemplation 
for  some  considerable  time.  I  was  anxious,  however,  to  bring 
my  new  velvet  tunic  on  the  tapis,  but  did  not  at  first  see  my  way 


56  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

to  doing  it  without  egotism.  I  adopted  an  indirect  method,  saying 
to  Ada : — "  You've  not  got  a  new  frock  on."  This  could  not  fail 
to  direct  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  had. 

But  Ada  piqued  me  by  ignoring  this  fact.  She  passed  my 
remark  by,  in  favour  of  a  bald  irrelevant  statement  that  might 
have  suited  Atalanta,  saying  simply : — "  I  can  catch  you."  To 
our  unfledged  minds  alternate  citations  of  points  in  which  each 
speaker  claimed  some  advantage  over  the  other  had  all  the  force 
of  consecutive  argument.  But  this  did  not  interfere  with  the 
happiness  of  our  association,  which  possessed  for  me  a  charm 
I  failed  to  find  in  the  society  of  my  sisters.  I  was  too  young  to  be 
aware  that  this  was  human  nature. 

I  have  written  on  to  the  point  where  I  am  obliged  to  stop  for 
want  of  paper,  almost  without  reference  to  "  the  girls  " — which 
was  my  father's  collective  title  for  my  sisters  then,  and  which  my 
mind  recognizes  them  by  now.  As  soon  as  the  matron  has  given 
me  some  more,  which  I  know  she  will  do,  I  must  really  contrive  to 
remember  something  to  tell  about  them.  This  that  I  have  written 
shall  be  put  by  in  the  little  locker  at  my  bed's  head.  You  need 
not  be  uneasy  about  my  having  all  reasonable  comforts.  The 
twentieth  century  has  begun — not  without  swagger,  as  I  gather 
from  the  newspapers  we  get — and  things  are  not  what  they  were 
fifty  years  ago. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  SUPPOSE  it  was  only  human  nature,  that  preference  for  the 
society  of  Adaropposite  to  that  of  my  sisters.  For  it  was  a  prefer- 
ence, in  spite  of  the  peculiar  forms  our  intercourse  took.  It  in- 
volved no  condemnation  of  my  sisters  that  did  not  arise  out  of 
the  obnoxious  fact  of  their  sisterhood  to  myself — which,  had  it  been 
perpetrated  at  any  other  small  boy's  expense,  I  should  have  forgiven. 
I  perceived  as  an  abstract  truth  that  they  might  compete  with 
other  sisters  in  looks  and  accomplishments,  but  that  that  did  not 
redeem  the  drawback  of  a  common  parentage. 

Besides,  other  boys'  sisters  always  appeared  in  public  complete, 
I  had  had  opportunities  of  seeing  mine  in  an  incomplete  condition, 
and  despised  their  appearance  at  such  times;  it  was  often  the 
reverse  of  dashing".  In  my  earliest  youth  I  did  not  scruple  to  taunt 
them  before  company  with  details  of  their  identity — garters  and  so 
forth.  Public  reprimand  checked  this,  and  at  the  date  of  Adarop- 
posite, I  was  getting  to  be  more  of  a  man  of  the  world.  I  think 
I  was  strongly  influenced  by  refusals  of  Varnish  to  allow  me  to  mix 
in  Society  unless  I  gave  securities  that  I  would  not  refer  to  my 
sisters'  wardrobes.  I  endeavoured  to  compromise,  trying  to  induce 
Varnish  to  accept  my  undertaking  not  to  say  the  name  of  a  selected 
garment' — selected  as  notorious,  almost  infamous.  But  Varnish 
was  immovable.  "  Just  let  me  catch  you  saying  any  of  their  cloze 
at  all,  under  or  over,  and  back  you  come  into  this  nursery ! " 

Throughout  this  very  early  period  I  am  afraid  I  regarded  my 
sisters  as  an  agglomerate — or  should  I  say  communion? — whose 
clothes  were  all  made  of  the  same  material  at  the  same  time.  Per- 
haps I  should  except  Gracey,  who  lent  herself  to  partial  excom- 
munication to  play  games  with  me  on  rainy  days.  But  these  games 
lacked  the  fine  sense  of  outlawry  which  gave  such  charm  to  my 
escapades  in  the  Square  with  Ada.  A  vicious  conformity  hung 
about  Gracey's  ideas  of  what  little  boys  and  girls  were  to.  This 
formula  of  speech  is  due  to  Varnish,  as  thus : — "  You  mind  what 
you're  told,  young  Squire!  When  Miss  Gracey  says  you  ain't  to, 
you  ain't  to.  So  now  you  just  pay  attention."  I  didn't  pay  much, 
and  did  do  what  I  wasn't  to,  as  often  as  not. 

57 


58  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

This  rebellious  spirit  may  be  traceable  to  a  secret  resentment 
against  poor  little  Gracey's  name,  her  full  name  being  Grace 
Margaret.  I  could  not  shut  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  she  had  to 
be  said,  at  dinner;  hence  an  aroma  of  moral  precept  hung  about 
her,  a  thing  that  would  have  been  all  very  fine  had  Being  Good 
been  the  question  before  the  House;  but  that  was  intolerable  in 
connection  with  the  great  objects  of  Life.  Rainy  days,  however, 
narrowed  my  resources  in  companionship,  and  it  had  to  be  Gracey's, 
or  none  at  all. 

Still  Gracey  was  young  enough  in  those  days  to  play  at  games, 
while  Roberta,  or  Bertie,  was  just  old  enough  to  pretend  she  wasn't. 
She  would  not  join  in  our  favourite  diversion,  the  construction  of  a 
ship  with  chairs  for  bulwarks  and  a  stiff  sofa  mattress  for  the 
main  deck,  even  though  she  were  always  allowed  to  be  the  Captain. 
Gracey  and  I  took  turns,  either  being  alternately  crew  and  Captain. 
Discipline  was  equivocal  on  that  ship,  because  the  crew  and  the 
Captain  used  to  fight  for  the  main  cabin,  which  was  only  large 
enough  to  accommodate  one  at  a  time,  and  had  to  be  crept  into 
horizontally.  It  was  an  unseaworthy  boat,  liable  to  founder  when 
neither  Captain  nor  crew  would  surrender  the  cabin  claim  to  the 
other,  and  remain  on  deck.  Bertie  held  off,  affecting  superiority. 

As  for  Ellen,  she  was  quite  old.  Her  teens  were  pending,  and 
they  very  shortly  after  engulfed  and  absorbed  her.  Memory, 
fishing  in  the  past  for  something  contemporary  to  recollect  in  con- 
nection with  Ellen,  catches  at  Berlin  Woolwork,  an  art  and  craft 
I  regarded  with  favour  as  far  as  the  colours  of  the  wools  went, 
but  despised  as  a  producer  of  results — kettle-holders  chiefly.  I 
enjoyed  assisting  in  the  winding  of  these  wools;  and  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  surely  this  winding  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
eraftsperson's  output.  It  was,  however,  a  social  boon,  being,  accord- 
ing to  Varnish,  the  only  thing  that  kept  that  Young  Turk,  quiet. 
I  was  very  unhappy  about  the  way  these  wools  seemed  to  degenerate. 
The  primal  glory  of  the  skein — so  I  thought — should  never  have 
been  sacrificed  to  a  miserable  conversion  into  balls  or  small  allow- 
ances wound  on  cards,  and  even  these  possessed  a  richness  and 
charm  that  vanished  as  they  became  incorporated  into  kettle- 
holders  or  more  ambitious  chair-backs,  with  stairs  running  round 
the  outline  of  the  design.  I  remember  a  magnum  opus;  swans 
with  a  crimson  atmosphere,  boldly  gradated,  for  background;  and 
how  I  looked  back  with  regret  to  the  splendour  of  that  atmosphere 
in  its  skein-days.  I  must  admit,  however,  that  the  same  feeling 
has  haunted  my  whole  life  in  respect  of  artist's  materials  of  all 
sorts,  before  and  after  The  Artist  has  spoiled  them.  Unsullied  can- 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  59 

vasses,  virgin  tubes  of  colour,  truthfully  labelled;  hog-hair  brushes 
with  clean  handles,  and  sables  still  fluffy  from  their  makers'  hands, 
unlicked  by  Philistines  who  have  doubted  their  point — and  deserved 
to  be  thumbscrewed — all  these  things  have  always  been  joys  to  my 
heart,  and  best  kept  safe  out  of  the  way  of  The  Artist.  He  is  not 
to  be  trusted  and  will  certainly  put  something  in  broadly  with  them 
if  he  gets  at  them,  and  won't  wash  the  brushes,  and  will  leave  the 
caps  off  the  colours  and  sit  down  on  them,  and  will  one  day  do 
some  more  to  it — the  something^—  only  he  will  first  have  the  canvas 
put  on  a  new  stretcher  and  gain  half  an  inch  at  the  top.  No 
reasonable  person  can  wonder  at  my  preference  for  the  wool  in  its 
protoplastic  form  of  skeins. 

Roberta  does  not  connect  herself  with  any  particular  thing  or 
incident,  except  Miss  Evans,  who  might  rank  as  either  from  my 
point  of  view,  being  distinctly  more  an  institution  than  a  young 
lady  with  pretensions  to  good  looks,  which  I  conceive  might  have 
been  thought  by  most  people  a  fair  way  to  classify  her  at  that 
date.  I  feel  confident  now  that  a  judge  of  women  would  have 
said  so;  but,  at  seven,  I  was  not  one — nor  indeed,  later.  Her  good 
looks  may  have  been  numerous  for  anything  I  could  tell,  but  they 
were  spoiled  for  me  by  one  bad  look,  the  one  that  disapproved  of 
boys.  We  were  antipathetic,  confessedly.  She  and  my  two  elder 
sisters  presented  themselves  to  me  as  a  league,  countenanced  by  my 
mother,  but  kept  in  check — discouraged  from  murder,  for  instance, 
— by  my  father.  All  my  impressions  of  that  date  were  deemed  to 
change,  within  what  now  seems  an  inexplicably  short  time  when, 
I  count  its  actual  year-measurement,  but  which  presented  itself  to 
my  early  manhood  as  the  current  era — the  span  of  known  history. 
If  I  were  writing  my  life  I  should  omit  all  this,  as  unimportant. 
What  connection  has  my  nursery  antipathy  to  Miss  Evans  with 
any  event  that  made  it  what  it  became,  later?  Simply  nothing  at 
all.  But  I  remember  it  .as  a  phase  of  childhood,  and  as  such  give 
it  a  passing  word. 

In  the  five  years  that  followed,  my  sisters  must  have  changed, 
although  my  memory  is  torpid  as  to  the  manner  how.  They  grew 
larger,  but  otherwise,  remained,  for  me,  sisters  et  praeterea  nihil. 
I  think  a  languid  curiosity  stirred  me  when  Ellen's  first  long  dress 
came  from  the  maker's,  as  to  what  she  would  look  like  in  it.  I 
don't  know  whether  younger  brothers  generally  take  much  interest 
in  the  gradual  disappearance  of  their  sister's  ankles  from  the 
public  ken.  Mine  was  certainly  of  the  most  languid  and  per- 
functory description.  My  decision,  when  I  saw  Ellen  in  her  new 
guise,  was  that  she  looked  like  a  conscious  impostor,  a  make-believe 


tfO  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

young  lady,  when  every  one  knew  she  was  only  one  of  my  sisters. 
I  thought  my  father  looked  disconcerted  at  the  result,  and  my 
mother  impatient  and  angry,  causing  me  to  ascribe  to  her  a 
mental  comparison  between  her  own  figure  at  seventeen  and  that 
of  her  daughter.  I  heard  her  say  to  my  father,  aside : — "  What  I 
can  have  done  I  do  not  know,  Nathaniel,  to  deserve  a  daughter 
whom  you  may  gloss  over,  but  who  is  nevertheless  a  scarecrow." 
My  father  said  dejectedly:—"  She'll  fill  out,  Cajcilia,  she'll  fill  out." 
My  mother  contrived  to  show  her  incredulity,  without  doing  any- 
thing capable  of  description.  I  need  not  say  that  they  supposed  that 
this  conversation  reached  their  own  ears  alone. 

My  memory,  however  languid  it  may  be  about  my  sisters  at 
this  date,  is  not  so  about  many  personalities  that  should,  I  suppose, 
have  interested  me  less — The  Man,  for  instance.  By  some  strange 
fatality  all  the  events  in  which  he  took  part  actively  remain  still 
in  my  mind,  or  easy  to  recall.  Why  should  a  husky  habit  of 
speech,  a  flavour  of  a  wardrobe,  very  thick  boot-soles  and  a  vice  of 
pedalling  too  frequently  in  unexpected  places,  have  a  charm  for 
male  youth,  even  when  it  connects  none  of  these  characteristics 
with  beer.  They  retained  their  power  over  me  till  after  I  was 
promoted  from  boyhood  to  schoolboyhood  and  I  regarded  them, 
I  think,  as  evidence  of  sobriety,  having  so  often  heard  it  men- 
tioned in  connection  with  them.  My  recollection  of  Mr.  Freeman 
within  a  couple  of  years  after  he  unpacked  those  boxes  is  that  of 
a  sinner  who  repented  more  and  more  frequently,  always  qualifying 
himself  for  each  successive  repentance  in  the  intervals.  Each  time 
this  occurred  my  father  swore  it  should  be  the  last  time.  But  Mr. 
Freeman  seemed  to  have  an  inexhaustible  credit  at  the  Bank  of 
Patience,  and  might  no  doubt  have  gone  on  drawing  increasing 
cheques  indefinitely,  had  nothing  happened  to  interrupt  him.  Just 
at  the  time  of  which  I  write  he  was  still  attached  to  the  mansion, 
having  passed  through  a  recent  acknowledgment  of  his  weakness, 
his  evil  behaviour.  He  had  induced  my  father  for  the  fiftieth  time 
to  overlook  it  this  once,  and  had  resumed  his  duties  under  a  promise 
to  take  the  pledge,  if  by  any  conceivable  chance  another  lapse  from 
virtue  should  occur.  An  agreement,  as  it  were,  to  make  a  Lease. 
But  I  don't  believe  The  Man  ever  took  the  pledge;  which  is  con- 
nected with  my  belief  that  he  never  broke  it.  I  have  no  doubt  had 
he  done  both,  he  would  have  repeated  both,  da  capo  ad  libitum. 

Vamish  remained,  unchanged.  I  cannot  picture  Varnish  to 
myself  as  subject  to  alteration  of  any  sort.  If  the  question  had 
been  raised  by  any  slight  fluctuation  on  her  part  during  the  thirty 
following  years,  I  should  have  imputed  it  to  a  variation  in  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  $1 

character  of  identity;  a  wavering  of  the  rock-bed  of  existence,  to 
which  she  felt  bound  to  make  concession,  in  order  that  her  relation 
to  the  officially  Imputable  should  remain  intact.  But  her  vis 
immutatrix  naturae  was  not  contagious,  for  all  the  other  servants 
— only  really  I  can  recollect  very  little  about  any  of  them — varied 
like  Scientific  finals;  but  with  this  difference,  that  no  decision  of 
Science  is  ever  rescinded  until  a  new  one  is  ready  to  take  its  place ; 
while  on  the  other  hand  no  substitute  for  a  new  cook  or  housemaid 
was  ever  sought  for — by  my  mother,  at  least — until  the  outgoing  one 
had  had  a  month's  warning.  I  think,  though,  that  Anne  Pershore, 
or  Persia,  or  Jumpey,  left  us  to  marry  a  Professed  Trousers-Maker, 
and  a  cousin  of  hers  took  her  place.  But  for  some  reason  Jumpey 
did  not  go  on  the  day  her  cousin  came ;  so  they  overlapped,  and  I 
am  sorry  to  say  quarrelled.  So  do  the  views  of  Science  when  the 
old  certainties  and  the  new  overlap.  Jumpey  and  her  cousin  may  be 
forgiven.  How  often  her  place  had  been  refilled  during  this  five 
years  I  cannot  say.  As  my  world  enlarged — as,  for  instance,  those 
great  beings  my  schoolmasters  came  into  it — the  world  of  early 
babyhood  grew  small  and  dwindled.  I  learned  to  despise  it  then. 
My  old  age  is  vexed  to  remember  no  more  of  it. 

Written  for  its  writer's  sake,  mere  reminiscence,  rich  in  trivi- 
ality, does  not  pall.  For  its  reader  it  is  another  matter;  he  must 
weary  of  it,  sooner  or  later.  I  have  throughout  assumed  his  non- 
existence,  to  justify  an  attempt  to  disinter  so  much  of  my  childhood 
while  its  memories  are  yet  pleasant  to  me.  As  the  store — or  the 
contents  of  the  sepulchre,  if  you  will — begin  to  fail  me,  I  flinch 
from  the  writing  of  what  follows,  though  in  a  sense  it  is  easier  to 
write.  Easier,  because  events  cease  to  be  mere  flashes  of  vision, 
seen  through  a  mist,  and  become  the  thread  of  a  record  that  is 
indelible  from  my  mind,  whether  I  write  it  or  not.  If  I  were  to 
write  it  now  in  full,  would  it  thereafter,  I  wonder,  weigh  less  upon 
me.  At  least  it  is  worth  the  trying.  I  have  always  had  a  lenient 
feeling  towards  confession,  but  as  a  mental  luxury  only,  soothing 
to  one's  egotism ;  not  with  any  view  to  absolution. 

As  time  went  on,  and  my  eyes  opened  on  the  world  about  me,  I 
came  to  be  aware  that,  somehow  or  other,  my  father  got  richer  and 
richer.  It  was  not  only  that  all  the  appurtenances  of  life  grew 
more  costly;  indeed  that  alone  might  have  failed  to  reach  my 
understanding,  as  I  had  always  conceived — like  most  boys,  surely 
— that  my  father's  resources  were  essentially  equal  to  any  strain 
upon  them,  though  he  might  disburse  reluctantly.  Other  informa- 


62  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

tion  reached  me,  and  showed  me  what  my  father  had,  as  I  think, 
•wisely  kept  me  in  ignorance  of.  I  have  the  clearest  possible  recol- 
lection of  the  place  and  the  occasion.  Looking  back  now,  it  seems 
to  me  strange  that  what  was  to  my  mind  European  History  then, 
should  only  live  now  in  the  memory  of  an  old  man  whom  all  have 
iorgotten,  so  far  as  his  knowledge  goes,  of  his  schoolfellows  of  the 
past.  Some  still  live,  no  doubt,  who  would  remember  the  place. 
Boys  never  forget  their  schools.  But  to  the  best  of  my  belief, 
I  shall  name  no  names  but  those,  of  the  departed  in  telling  the 
occasion. 

If  this  is  ever  seen  and  read  by  a  boy  of  my  school — those  of 
my  own  time  grow  fewer  every  day  now — he  will  remember  at 
once  by  its  name  the  Long  Room  or  Room  K.  It  comes  before  me 
as  I  write  this  now,  a  very,  very  long  image  of  a  room;  probably 
twice  the  length  of  the  room  itself  ever  was,  with  twice  the  number 
of  long  desks  too  narrow  to  write  on  with  comfort,  each  pitted  at 
intervals  with  a  socket  for  a  leaden  inkpot  of  a  constipated  nature; 
an  inkpot  to  strike  a  chill  into  the  heart  of  authorship  and  thwart 
its  inspirations.  Of  all  the  hopeless  enterprises  of  my  experience, 
the  getting  of  another  dip  of  ink  at  a  penultimate  stage  of  the 
activity  of  these  inkpots  was  the  most  hopeless.  A  moral  flavour 
of  intense  discouragement,  and  a  physical  one  of  stale  sandwiches, 
hangs  about  exhausted  ink-supply  to  this  day,  for  me.  But  the 
latter  aroma  pervades  every  memory  of  my  school  days.  It  was 
an  ever-present  inheritance  from  a  countless  multitude  of  bygone 
sandwich-tins,  belonging  to  the  majority  of  the  boys  who  did  not 
go  home  to  dinner  at  a  quarter-past-twelve,  but  filled  the  play- 
ground in  fine  weather;  and,  when  driven  into  shelter  by  rain, 
disposed  of  themselves,  Heaven  knows  how,  in  and  about  the  empty 
class-rooms.  Of  these  at  such  times  the  Long  Room  was  one  of 
the  most  popular. 

I  was  a  boy  that  went  home  to  dinner.  I  had  on  leaving  my 
last  class  to  pass  through  this  room,  and  on  the  occasion  of  which 
I  write  it  was  filling  rapidly  with  boys  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  driveu 
in  by  a  heavy  thunder-shower.  Boys  with  no  organized  resource 
under  such  circumstances  naturally  turn  their  minds  to  the  moles- 
tation and  oppression  of  boys  weaker  than  themselves.  A  spirit  of 
Imperialism  shows  itself. 

I  had  been  detained  as  a  penalty  for  some  trivial  transgression, 
and  by  the  time  I  came  out  of  my  class-room  the  Long  Room  had 
become  a  scene  of  anarchy.  A  fiction  existed  that  this  room  was 
in  all  offtimes  to  afford  a  refuge  to  the  studious.  But  the  studious 
cannot  do  Euclid  or  Virgil — that  is  what  such  like  miscellaneous 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  63 

items  of  school  aliment  are  for,  to  be  "done" — when  the  lawless 
scour  round  them,  climb  over  them,  use  their  books  as  missiles,  put 
foreign  matter  down  their  backs,  capsize  their  seats,  yell  close  at 
their  ears,  and  distract  their  minds  by  mis-statements  of  current 
events. 

The  boy  that  I  have  spoken  of  as  my  informant  about  my 
father's  increasing  resources  was  qualified  to  give  information  on 
this  point,  for  his  old  brother,  as  he  called  him,  was  "  in  the  City," 
and  knew  about  these  things.  When  I  came  out  into  the  Long 
Room  this  boy,  Montague  Moss,  was  sitting  cross-legged  like  a 
tailor,  with  his  chin  in  his  hands,  deep  in  a  book.  As  I  was  pass- 
ing him,  I  was  suddenly  caught  by  a  special  persecutor  of  mine, 
who  forced  me  down  on  a  bench  and  sat  upon  me,  to  the  great 
delight  of  other  lawless  characters.  This  odious  tyrant  was  a  boy 
named  Xevinson,  who  had  white  eyelashes  and  freckles.  He  was 
dreadfully  strong,  and  had  a  most  offensive  supercilious  manner. 
He  was  a  Wit,  or  at  least  had  the  reputation  of  being  one;  but 
whether  this  was  deserved,  or  a  mere  result  of  his  own  opinion 
of  his  powers,  endorsed  by  the  subserviency  of  his  admirers,  I 
know  not.  He  was  always  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  sycophants, 
who  only  awaited  the  opening  of  his  lips  to  burst  into  laughter 
which  I  cannot  help  thinking  some  of  them  could  have  controlled. 
At  least,  I  am  certain  they  exaggerated  and  intensified  it  on  this 
occasion  because  their  idol  was  astride  on  the  object  of  his  satire 
— videlicet  myself — who  was  powerless  to  resent  their  offensive 
endorsement  of  it.  I  should  certainly  have  tried  to  do  this  against 
any  boy  of  my  own  size,  had  I  not  been  obsessed  by  a  superior 
power. 

The  conversation,  which  engaged  the  attention  of  other  boys  out- 
side the  group  of  which  I  was  the  unwilling  centre,  turned  upon 
the  respective  employments,  professional  or  otherwise,  of  the 
various  boys'  fathers,  Nevinson  giving  an  abstract,  to  the  best  of 
his  belief,  of  such  instances  as  were  known  to  him. 

"  Your  governor,  little  Bloxom,"  he  said,  "  is  a  stinking  purveyor 
of  goat's  milk  to  the  Royal  Family.  It  stinks.  Four  governor, 
little  Kibblewhite.  is  a  stinking  Attorney  with  a  bag." 

"  He  yain't.  He's  a  Solicitor."  But  little  Kibblewhite,  having 
dared  this  contradiction,  got  near  the  door,  to  make  a  bolt  if 
pursued. 

But  my  tyrant  wouldn't  desert  me,  as  I  hoped  he  would.  He 
warmed  to  his  topic.  "  Little  Pascoe's  governor,"  he  said,  "  is  a 
stinking  Jew  stockjobber." 

This  was  too  much  for  Montague  Moss,  who  was  Hebrew  to  the 


64  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

backbone.  He  was  ready  with  a  trenchant  repartee  on  my  behalf. 
"  Tour  father,"  he  shouted  to  Nevinson,  "  is  a  stinking  potato 
salesman." 

"  Yours,"  replied  Nevinson,  with  an  affectation  of  serene  superi- 
ority, lt  is  a  stinking  old  clothesman."  Then  he  added,  referring  to 
a  wriggle  of  mine ;  for  I  thought  I  might  get  away,  "  you  lie  still, 
little  Pascoe,  or  I'll  give  you  bones  in  the  stomach.  See  if  I 
don't!" 

I  lay  still,  the  victim  of  irresistible  circumstance.  But  my 
torments  were  not  to  be  for  long.  For  the  exasperation  of  my 
tormentor's  manner,  backed  by  his  minions'  offensive  delight,  shown 
by  dancing  and  pointing  at  the  object  of  their  derision,  was  such 
that  no  son  of  any  self-respecting  old  clothesman  could  be  reason- 
ably expected  to  endure  it.  Montague  Moss,  or  Cooky,  as  he  was 
called — no  doubt  for  some  reason,  but  I  never  knew  it — went 
straight  for  Master  Nevinson  and  the  two  were  over  on  the  floor, 
pummelling  one  another  with  heartfelt  ill-will,  before  I  could 
recover  my  footing  and  my  parcel  of  books.  I  was  frightened  at 
the  chaotic  joy  of  the  gathering  throng  of  boys: — for  they  swarmed 
from  Heaven  knows  where  as  the  rumour  flew  of  battle  toward ;  the 
cry  being  merely  "  Cooky  and  Nevinson  " — and  got  away  as  quick  as 
I  could  to  lock  up  my  books,  which  I  never  carried  home  with  me 
at  midday.  I  was  overdue  at  home,  and  very  ready  for  dinner. 
A  torrent  of  boys  swept  by  me  to  a  rendezvous  below,  good  for 
fights;  they  followed  on  the  heels  of  the  two  champions,  in  charge 
of  older  boys  who  were  going  to  see  fair,  and  enjoy  the  battle. 

I  have  felt  sorry  since  that  I  did  not  see  it.  But  I  was  really 
only  just  out  of  the  nursery — scarcely  nine  years  old — and  the 
savagery  that  is  understood  to  be  desirable  in  the  formation  of  the 
male  character  was  still  to  come,  in  my  case.  I  saw  what  brought 
it  home  to  me  though.  For  being  late  on  my  return.  I  slipped  in 
a  puddle  and  got  muddy.  Going  to  the  wash-house  made  and 
provided  for  such  contingencies,  to  clean  up,  I  heard  from  its 
dark  recesses  a  gasping  sound  of  sobs  and  angry  mutterings,  and 
when  my  eyes  pierced  the  obscurity,  saw  Nevinson.  But  quantum 
mutatus!  There  are  some  complexions  that  show  weals  and  bruises 
to  the  worst  advantage.  His  was  one.  He  turned  furiously  on  me 
when  he  saw  me.  "  You  cheesy  young  sneak !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It 
was  all  your  fault.  You  come  here  and  I'll  murder  you." 

I  felt  the  injustice  of  the  accusation  so  keenly  that  I  wanted 
io  expostulate.  For  the  affair  had  been  no  fault  of  mine.  I  wanted 
too  an  explanation  of  the  adjective  applied  to  me.  I  had  always 
•understood  that  it  was  the  equivalent  of  choice,  or  super-excellent. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  65 

But  so  hideous  to  me  was  the  darkness  of  the  place,  and  HO  taint 
of  blood — for  I  could  see  how  the  basin-water  had  been  stained — 
so  hideous  the  swelled  lips  and  discoloured  eyes  of  its  only  occu- 
pant, inarticulate  with  pain  and  mortification;  so  hideous  above  all 
his  rage,  that  I  fled  in  terror  of  it.  The  poor  wretch's  misfortunes 
had  not  ended  however,  for  next  day  he  and  his  opponent  were 
sent  for  by  the  head-master,  and  given  five  hundred  lines,  for 
fighting. 

I  suppose  that  any  person  on  whose  stomach  the  recipient  of  a 
challenge  chances  to  be  seated  is  in  some  sense  morally  involved 
in  the  battle  when  it  comes  off,  and  that  I  am  at  fault  in  wonder- 
ing why  this  affair  led  to  my  becoming  such  fast  friends  with 
the  boy  Cooky.  It  certainly  did,  although  he  was  so  much  my 
senior;  and  the  friendship  began  by  my  walking  home  with  him 
two  days  later.  It  was  what  Cooky  said  to  me  during  that  walk 
that  opened  my  eyes  to  my  father's  wealth,  and  its  sources.  Here 
is  our  conversation : 

"  I  say,  Cooky.    Can't  Nevinson  learn  by  rote  like  you  can  ? " 

"He? — not  lie!  He  can't  learn  up  three  lines  in  an  hour.  I  said 
mine  yesterday.  Five  hundred  lines  of  Ovid's  nothing."  And 
Cooky  began  reciting  with  fiendish  rapidity,"  Spargere quae f ratris 
lacerata  per  agros,"  and  got  through  a  hundred  lines  in  no  time, 
checking  each  off  on  his  fingers,  and  coming  to  "  emeruitgue 
viruiu,"  "  ten " —  and  so  on  up  to  a  hundred,  when  he  stopped, 
saying : — "  It's  all  like  that.  You'll  see  when  you  come  to  do 
Ovid." 

I  was  impressed,  but  was  sick  at  heart  to  think  of  the  fate  of 
Nevinson,  who  had  as  I  thought  suffered  enough  in  all  conscience. 
%<  Will  he  be  kept  in  every  day  till  he's  said  all  the  lines  ?  "  I  asked. 

%i  Every  day.  And  if  he  doesn't  do  it  this  term  he'll  have  to 
begin  again  next.  Poor  beggar !  " 

"But  I  say,  Cooky,  that's  not  fair "  I  hesitated,  unable  to 

define  the  wicked  injustice  of  the  penalty  in  three  words. 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is,"  said  my  new  friend.  "  Because  he  called  my 
father  a  stinking  old  clothesman,  and  I  only  called  his  a  stinking 
potato  salesman.  Stinking  was  the  same  for  both."  By  which 
he  meant  that  the  expression  might  be  written  off  both  sides  of  the 
account,  not  that  the  aroma  of  both  parents  was  identical.  No 
language  could  do  justice  to  the  absolute  gravity  and  good  faith 
with  which  this  point  was  discussed.  Boys  are  miraculous 
creatures. 

"  Is  his  father  a  potato  salesman  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Not  he !    At  least,  I  don't  know  anything  about  him." 


66  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  say,  Cooky- 


"What,  little  Pascoe?"  Then  incidentally :— "  You're  a  nice 
little  beggar,  and  I  mean  to  give  you  a  top." 

After  saying  doubtfully,  "  Shall  I  be  able  to  spin  it  ? "  I  pursued 
my  question.  "  I  say,  Cooky,  though,  is  your  father  really  an 
Old  Clothesman  ?  "  I  felt  seriously  concerned. 

"  Of  course  he  is!  "  said  Cooky.    "  With  three  hats!  " 

I  felt  ready  to  cry;  for,  boylike,  I  had  already  got  very  fond 
of  my  new  friend,  and  we  were  .sauntering  homewards  in  that 
happy  companionship  that  I  firmly  believe  only  boys  enjoy  in  the 
same  degree.  His  arm  was  round  my  neck,  and  if  he  did  occasion- 
ally tickle  or  punch  me  slightly  the  main  issue  remained  unaffected. 
But  presently  I  saw  a  glimmer  of  hope,  and  renewed  the  conversa- 
tion. "  I  say,  Cooky,  Nevinson  said  my  father  was  a "  I 

stopped,  with  a  natural  diffidence. 

"  Stinking  Jew  Stockjobber,"  said  Cooky,  unblushingly. 

"Well,  but  that  wasn't  true,"  said  I.  And  I  spoke  in  such  a 
rueful  tone  that  I  suppose  my  repugnance  to  the  description  was 
manifest. 

"Why  shouldn't  your  father  be  a  Jew  Stockjobber?  My  old 
brother's  a  Jew  Stockjobber."  Then  he  seemed  to  remember  that 
there  was  a  risk  of  an  important  point  being  lost  sight  of,  for  he 
added : — "  Of  course  '  stinking '  is  only  a  way  of  putting  it." 
It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  either  of  us  that  it  was  an  extraor- 
dinary or  abnormal  way.  It  merely  emphasized. 

I  did  not  like  to  disclaim  my  father's  Judaism  too  roundly; 
It  might  have  seemed  censorious  towards  Cooky's  old  brother;  but 
I  was  very  anxious  for  illumination  on  the  main  question.  So  I 
went  to  the  point,  saying? — "What  is  a  Stockjobber,  Cooky?" 

"I'll  tell  you/  little  Pascoe,"  said  he;  but  he  considered  a 
minute,  to  see  how  I  could  be  got  to  understand.  "  I  should  say 
he  was  a  chap  that  sold  things  for  double  the  money. — That  sort 
of  thing." 

"Double  what  he  gives  for  them?" 

"  No — four  times  what  he  gives  for  them.  He  only  gives  half 
the  money  for  them.  Shares  in  concerns,  you  know;  not  things  in 
shops.  That's  trade." 

"  Oh !  "  said  I.  I  don't  believe  Cooky  knew  much  more  about  the 
matter  than  I  did. 

"  Your  governor's  not  a  Tradesman,  you  know !  " 

"  Of  course  not !  "  My  soul  rose  against  the  suggestion,  and  I 
added,  with  dignity, — "  My  father's  in  Somerset  House."  I  was  not 
asked,  fortunately,  what  my  father  did  there. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  67 

Cooky  pursued  the  subject,  fighting  shy  of  close  definitions.  "  My 
old  brother  says  he  never  came  across  any  one  like  your  father. 
He  says  it's  a  sort  of  inspiration."  Seeing  me  look  puzzled,  he 
added : — "  Like  a  Prophet !  "  But  this  made  it  no  clearer,  for  an 
obvious  reason.  And  I  don't  know  to  this  day  how  the  phonetic 
school  of  spellers  discriminates  between  prophet  and  profit,  unless 
it  ignores  the  vulgar  tongue.  However,  as  soon  as  this  point  was 
cleared,  my  friend  enlarged  on  the  topic  enthusiastically.  "  My  old 
brother,"  he  said,  "  knows,  because  he  buys  and  sells  for  your 
governor.  He  says  that  three  years  ago  he  tried  to  stop  your 
governor  buying  a  lot  of  rotten  shares.  But  your  governor  was  too 
sharp,  and  bought  'em  all  for  nothing.  They're  worth  a  pot  now — 
a  pot  of  money,  I  mean." 

Cooky  was  silent  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  at  my  governor's  intrepidity 
and  success.  I  too  was  silent,  but  because  I  was  uneasy  at  the 
laxity  of  his  language.  My  reflections  found  voice  at  last  in  the 
question : — "  What  sized  pot  ?  "  So  much  seemed  to  me  to  depend 
on  the  size  of  the  pot. 

"  Oh,  you  little  Ass !  "  said  he,  with  the  sweet  candour  of  boy- 
hood. "What  does  it  matter?  Any  size.  You  want  everything 
like  Tit-tat-toe."  Exhilarating  passages  in  this  game  had  pre- 
ceded this  walk  home.  The  game  itself  is  prosaic,  though  the 
poem  that  mysteriously  accompanies  it  is  ornate  with  imagery. 
Cooky  resumed : — "  My  old  brother  says  that  last  year  Railways 
went  down  to  nothing,  and  there  was  a  panic.  And  your  governor 
came  to  him  and  made  him  buy  all  the  worst  Railway  Script  on 
the  market.  He  put  every  penny  he'd  got  before  on  it.  And 
three  months  after  they  were  a  hundred  per  cent  above  par."  I 
asked  Cooky  what  this  meant,  and  he  wouldn't  admit  he  didn't 
know,  avoiding  elucidation,  but  saying  vaguely  that  I  should  "  find 
it  all  right."  You  see,  he  was  really  Classics;  not  Mathematics  or 
Arithmetic  at  all. 

Reflecting  on  my  school  friend's  exposition  of  the  mysteries  of 
gambling  on  the  Bourse,  I  am  gratified  to  note  in  it  marks  of  the 
deeply-rooted  popular  belief,  that  everything  that  is  has  a  fixed, 
inherent,  intrinsic,  deep-rooted,  unchangeable  value  in  gold,  and 
in  gold  alone.  The  idle  pretensions  of  silver  and  copper  may  be 
dismissed  without  comment — mere  currency!  While  as  to  turnips 
and  the  like — fancy  a  value  in  turnips !  I  am  gratified,  because  it 
shows  that  Varnish  was  right  about  her  Bible, — or,  at  least,  that 
she  had  popular  opinion  on  her  side — when  she  enjoined  upon  me 
that  I  should  handle  that  precious  volume  carefully  and  not  run 
dogs-ears  into  the  "  profitable  annotations  on  all  the  hard  places," 


68 

insomuch  as  it  was  "  worth  two  pounds."  When,  many  many  years 
later,  in  days  that  have  since  become  the  Past,  I  got  for  its  owner 
four  pounds  for  this  volume,  she  was  stricken  in  conscience,  and 
would  hardly  accept  the  money,  on  the  grounds  that  it  was — and 
had  been,  in  the  nature  of  things,  ever  since  my  nursery  days — 
worth  two  precisely. 

But  though  Cooky  Moss'  ideas  on  business  were  vague,  he  re- 
peated his  old  brother's  words  accurately  enough,  and  gave  me  a 
much  improved  insight  into  the  sources  of  my  father's  new- 
found wealth.  As  far  as  I  can  judge — for  my  father  never  made 
me  his  confidant,  his  run  of  luck  must  have  continued  for  over 
three  years  from  the  date  of  this  conversation  with  Cooky.  I 
believe  that  during  this  period  he  more  than  once  repeated  his 
seeming  utter  recklessness, — flinging  all  his  past  winnings  mag- 
nificently on  the  roulette  table,  and  vexing  the  souls  of  the  croupiers 
of  the  Bank  of  Ill-luck  he  played  against — and  won.  For  a  while 
his  name  was  a  sort  of  byword  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  where  every 
operator  knew  what  "  Pascoe's  Luck  "  meant,  and  prayed  for  it. 

I  recollect  afterwards  hearing  him  say  to  Mr.  Stowe,  the  gentle- 
man with  the  eyes  aslant : — "  My  dear  Scritchey,  I  tell  you  I'm 
right.  They  say  Fortune  favours  the  bold.  But  where  would  the 
boldness  come  in  if  I  ran  no  risk  of  losing  all  my  stakes  ? "  I  now 
understand  his  meaning.  If  he  had  always  put  by  half  his  win- 
nings and  gambled  with  the  rest,  his  pluck  would  have  made  a  poor 
show  by  comparison.  I  believe  he  regarded  the  cash  he  received 
for  the  Heliconides  as  so  much  sheer  gambler's  stakes.  And  cer- 
tainly this  view  seemed  to  make  him  a  favourite  with  fortune. 

It  was  this  conversation  with  Cooky  that  first  set  me  thinking 
seriously  on  the  subject  of  my  father's  increase  of  wealth.  It  was 
pursued  through  the  whole  length  of  a  walk  full  of  unwarrantable 
detours,  ending  in  our  seeing  each  other  to  our  respective  homes 
alternately,  three  or  four  times.  At  our  final  doorstep — my  father's 
to  wit — we  referred  to  Nevinson,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  still 
kept  in,  grinding  at  his  hopeless  task,  without  a  brain!  Cooky 
looked  sorry  for  him,  saying: — "Poor  beggar — it's  cruel  hard 
lines ! "  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  him,  and  he  said  it  wasn't  a 
bad  one.  Gently  pressed  to  reveal  it,  he  divulged  a  scheme  for 
taking  Nevinson's  imposition  on  his  own  shoulders.  "  I  could 
knock  it  all  off  by  Saturday,"  said  he.  He  treated  the  matter  as 
though  the  sole  essential  was  that  five  hundred  lines  of  Ovid 
should  be  gabbled  through  without  book  in  a  way  that  would  have 
made  the  author's  blood  curdle,  had  the  pronunciation  of  the  words 
been  such  as  to  enable  him  to  find  out  who  wrote  them. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  69 

I  suppose  one  becomes  unduly  suspicious — or,  perhaps,  ill-tem- 
pered— in  old  age;  and  that  is  why  I  find  myself  doubting  whether 
Cooky's  motive  was  unmixed  good-nature.  Was  there  no  vainglory 
in  it?  After  all,  what  a  splendid  position  it  would  land  him  in, 
to  reel  off,  in  a  few  hours,  all  those  hexameters  that  his  late  ad- 
versary had  only  been  able  to  struggle  through  a  fraction  of  in 
about  as  many  days! 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

WHATEVER  goes  wrong  in  a  family  that  includes  very  young 
people,  they  look  upon  it  as  sure  to  come  right.  No  doubt  of  the 
practical  omnipotence  of  their  parents  crosses  their  mind,  as 
regards  all  domestic  matters.  My  impression  is  that  though  a 
boy  ascribes  to  his  meanest  schoolmaster  an  Olympian  quality 
his  male  parent  lacks,  he  only  does  so  in  respect  of  a  great  mys- 
terious world  that  does  not  overlap  his  father's.  This  world  and 
his  domestic' world  have  nothing  in  common,  and  his  belief  to  this 
effect  would  even  survive  his  conviction  that  they  occupied  the 
same  space. 

Even  so  it  is  with  all  the  many  Others  Science  is  bestowing 
on  us.  They — poor  souls! — have  only  one  Space,  and  that  one  of 
only  three  dimensions,  to  accommodate  the  lot.  Yet  the  waves 
of  Sound  cut  the  waves  of  Light  dead,  neither  moving  when  they 
meet,  and  Wireless  Electricity  ignores  both,  like  Trabb's  Boy. 
But  so  far  as  I  know,  no  undulations  of  any  ^Ether  look  down  on 
that  of  their  neighbours. 

A  schoolboy,  on  the  contrary,  looks  down  on  all  his  home  belong- 
ings, as  against  his  schoolmasters.  Does  he  not,  the  moment  that 
he  comes  to  know  anything  of  their  homes  and  possessions,  go  back 
to  his  own  and  flaunt  their  superiority  in  the  face  of  all  his  circle 
who  will  stop  to  listen  to  him?  But  this  does  not  affect  his  belief 
in  the  omnipotence  of  his  parents  in  their  puny  world.  He  does 
not  need  to  trouble  himself  about  the  Future.  They  will  see  to  all 
that. 

Therefore  when  my  father  and  my  Uncle  Francis  came  to 
loggerheads  about  some  point  in  the  management  of  my  mother's 
marriage  settlement,  I  was  content  in  my  belief  that  my  father 
was  absolutely  right,  and  my  Uncle  Francis  absolutely  wrong. 

It  was  Varnish  who  told  me  what  they  had  come  to,  and 
though  I  had  never  seen  a  loggerhead  to  my  knowledge,  I  at  once 
discerned  its  nature  from  its  context,  and  admitted  its  linguistic 
force — a  force  that  explanation  would  seriously  interfere  with,  to 
my  thinking.  At  this  time  I  was  no  longer  under  the  tutelage  of 
Varnish,  for  I  was  a  schoolboy  of  three  years  standing,  a  good 

70 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  71 

cricketer  of  my  years,  and  well  up  in  my  classes;  though  that  was 
a  matter  of  less  importance.  Varnish  and  I,  however,  were  on 
terms  of  mutual  devotion  that  no  addition  of  distinction  to  my 
own  position  could  shake,  and  may  be  said  to  have  been  in  the 
heart  of  each  other's  confidence  on  all  subjects. 

Also  at  this  time  a  change  was  made  in  my  sleeping  apartment, 
which  brought  me  very  much  indeed  into  the  pocket  of  that  of 
my  parents;  more  so  perhaps  than  they  themselves  would  have 
approved,  had  they  been  fully  aware  of  it.  At  least  they  would  not 
have  talked  so  loud,  had  they  rightly  appreciated  the  audibility  of 
conversation  carried  on  in  their  own  bedroom,  which  looked  out  on 
the  Square,  through  the  wall  of  my  corresponding  back  room,  which 
looked  out  chiefly  on  cats  and  their  habits.  I  wasn't  eavesdropping 
at  all,  in  the  dishonest  sense;  indeed  I  used  frequently  to  boast 
to  my  father  of  how  much  I  had  heard  of  their  talk,  repeating 
passages  as  proof  thereof.  I  must  suppose,  therefore,  that  when 
they  spoke  audibly  they  were  either  indifferent  as  to  whether  I 
heard  or  not ;  or  believed  me  asleep.  At  times,  no  doubt,  they  forgot 
me  as  either  would  now  and  then  respond  with  a  dropped  voice  to 
the  shish-shish,  or  suchlike  pianissimo  direction,  of  the  other.  It 
was  generally  my  mother  who  entered  protest,  saying,  "  You  needn't 
shout,"  or,  "I  can  hear  you  perfectly  well,  Nathaniel,"  in  a  cold 
suggestive  manner.  Whenever  voices  became  inaudible  in  this  way, 
I  always  went  under  the  bedclothes  conscientiously,  until  I  con- 
ceived, from  a  change  in  tone,  that  Europe  was  at  liberty  to  over- 
hear. The  weak  point  of  the  system  was  that  at  late  hours  they 
were  apt  to  take  it  for  granted  that  I  was  asleep. 

It  was  after  a  recess  of  this  kind,  occasioned  by  a  rather  warm 
discussion  becoming  veiled,  with  a  subacute  indication  of  strained 
relations,  that  I  came  up  to  breathe,  as  speech  became  normal,  and 
heard  my  mother  say : — "  Very  well,  Nathaniel,  very  well !  Consult 
a  lawyer  by  all  means  but  let  me  go  to  sleep."  At  which  broad 
hint,  my  father  held  his  tongue. 

I  surmise  that  he  held  it  tighter  than  was  absolutely  necessary 
under  the  circumstances.  He  might  have  said  good-night,  or  made 
some  sign  of  a  conciliatory  nature.  As  it  was,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  morally  certain  that  he  shut  his  lips  abruptly,  if  his 
mouth  had  been  a  trunk,  and  the  lid  had  come  suddenly  down. 
Naturally  my  mother  was  not  prepared  to  acquiesce  in  this.  Nothing 
is  more  offensive  than  to  be  taken  at  your  word  when  you  don't 
mean  it.  And  you  cannot  go  to  sleep  while  exasperated. 

But  I  don't  believe  her  wish  for  sleep  was  a  sincere  one.  Unless 
indeed  she  slept  then  and  there  for  some  fifty  seconds,  and  then 


72  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

awoke  with  an  unnaturally  clear  idea  of  what  to  say  next.  For, 
thereabouts,  her  words  were — and  they  were,  one  might  say,  almost 
viciously  articulate : — "  I  really  do  not  know  what  you  can  possibly 
mean,  Nathaniel,  by  saying  that  you  are  not  trying  to  lay  the 
blame  at  the  door  of  my  brothers " 

My  father  interrupted.  "Nobody's  blaming  anybody,"  said  he, 
briefly. 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  finish.  That  is  just  what  I  was  going 
to  say Oh  dear! — now  you've 'put  it  all  out  of  my  head " 

"  '  To  lay  the  blame  at  the  door  of  my  brothers/  "  my  father  re- 
peated, quoting  my  mother's  previous  speech. 

My  mother  picked  up  the  thread  of  her  discourse,  with  what 
seemed  to  me  an  unwarranted  confidence.  "  Precisely.  The  money 
is  all  there,  and  has  never  been  anywhere  else.  So  what  the  Lord 
Chancellor  can  possibly  have  to  say  on  the  matter  I  cannot  the 
least  imagine." 

"  Xo  more  can  I." 

"  Then,  what  is  all  this  temper  and  prevarication  for? " 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"  Nathaniel,  that  is  ungenerous  of  you.  It  is  an  attempt  to 
provoke  me  by  insinuating  that  it  is  7  that  have  lost  my  temper, 
when  you  know  perfectly  well  that  the  reverse  is  the  case.  The 
exact  reverse  in  every  respect.  But  I  will  not  allow  you  to  provoke 
me,  and  you  know  it  is  useless.  Listen  now  and — if  you  will  have 
patience1 — I  will  tell  you  exactly  what  my  brother  Francis  did  say, 
and  then  you  can  attack  him  as  you  like.  And  I  may  mention, 
Nathaniel,  that  it  was  not  only  Francis,  but  his  friend  Mr.  Thomas 
Skidney,  who  endorsed  that  opinion;  and  that  I  think  few  judg- 
ments are  entitled  to  greater  weight.  Indeed  I  have  heard  both 
my  brothers  say  frequently  that  the  reason  Mr.  Skidney  has  not 
taken  silk  is " 

"  Oh,  he's  a  lawyer  then  ?  I  thought  he  was  in  the  City.  Oh 
yes — that'll  do! — the  Inner  Temple's  in  the  City,  of  course.  But 
go  on  with  what  Francis  said." 

"  It  tries  me  to  talk  when  I  am  so  interrupted.  But  I  will 
tell  you  if  you  will  listen.  My  brother  stated  the  case  with  the 
clearness  which  I  am  sure  his  worst  enemy  could  not  refuse  to 
entertain."  My  mother  then  went  on  to  state  it  with  some 
prolixity,  the  upshot  being  that  my  Uncle  Francis  had  virtually 
put  in  a  claim,  as  my  mother's  trustee,  for  both  the  stakes  and  the 
winnings  in  my  father's  successful  gamblings  of  the  last  four 
years,  on  the  ground  that  the  original  fund,  being  the  result 
of  the  sale  of  settled  property,  should  by  rights  have  been  invested 


THE  NAERATfVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  73 

in  some  eligible  stock  sanctioned  by  the  Court  of  Chancery.  But 
that  as  the  fund  had  been  otherwise  employed  in  the  interim,  it 
would  be  competent  to  the  Trustees  to  claim  it  now,  "  subject  to 
any  depreciation  or  improvement  in  its  value." 

I  was  getting  very  sleepy  by  this  time,  and  I  suspect  that  I  do 
not  really  recollect  my  father's  reply.  It  is  an  automatic  con- 
coction of  my  brain  from  the  reaction  of  subsequent  knowledge  on 
the  hazy  impression  of  the  moment. 

"  Then  your  brother  should  have  said  so  at  first,  instead  of  con- 
senting," is  the  answer  I  seem  to  remember,  before  oblivion  shrouds 
the  dispute  in  the  next  room  in  nothingness.  But  I  am  sure  of  one 
thing,  that  so  far  from  my  mother  showing  any  wish  to  go  to  sleep, 
she  appeared  to  grow  more  and  more  emphatic — perhaps  I  should 
say  quarrelsome — and  I  have  no  doubt  the  wrangle  lasted  well  on 
into  the  night. 

I  came  to  know  in  time  what  position  had  been  taken  up  by  my 
father  and  my  uncles  respectively,  the  latter  being  two  out  of  three 
trustees  of  my  mother's  marriage  settlement;  a  deed  framed,  like  its 
like,  for  the  creation  of  family  discord,  and  to  supply  the  legal 
member  of  the  family  with  a  ,theme  to  employ  his  legal  acumen  on. 
Oh,  the  happiness  of  writing  for  no  readers,  without  the  ghost  of  a 
compliment  to  any  Grundy! 

My  father  justified  his  employment  of  the  Heliconides  money 
in  reckless  speculation  on  two  grounds;  one  that  no  reference 
was  made  to  those  Art  treasures  in  the  Settlement  itself,  the  other 
that  the  old  box  in  which  they  were  found  had  been  deposited 
without  reservation  in  the  Mecklenburg  Square  attic  long  after  that 
document  was  signed  and  sealed,  when  my  grandmother  moved  into 
her  new  house  at  Highbury,  the  long  lease  of  the  Admiral's  old 
house  at  Peckham  Rye  having  expired.  He  had  frequently  sug- 
gested that  this  box  and  its  fellows  should  be  returned  to  my 
grandmother,  but  that  decisive  old  lady  had  as  frequently  refused 
to  receive  them,  on  the  plea  that  a  noxious  insect  had  appeared 
when  one  was  partly  opened,  and  had  got  away  unsquashed,  owing 
to  the  want  of  presence  of  mind  of  a  girl  named  Anne  Tucker, 
who  was  no  better  than  she  should  be.  My  grandmother's  intro- 
duction of  irrelevant  matter  into  conversation  was  not  furtive, 
but  audacious  and  unblushing,  and  she  used  any  riposte  as  ap- 
plicable to  any  thrust.  The  superseding  interest  of  Anne  Tucker's 
frailty  always  put  an  end  to  any  attempt  of  my  father  to  get  this 
property  back  into  the  possession  of  its  owner. 

My  uncle,  no  doubt  alarmed  at  the  dazzling  recklessness  of  my 
father's  operations  on  'Change,  was  engineering  his  position  as  a 


74  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Trustee  to  capture  as  much  as  might  be  of  the  gambler's  winnings 
before  the  fatal  day  arrived  on  which  the  croupier's  rake  should 
sweep  in  the  whole  pile,  and  leave  the  speculator  bankrupt.  The 
weakness  of  his  entrenchments  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were,  so 
to  speak,  arrieres-pensees;  that  he  should  in  fact  have  laid  claim  to 
the  prizes  when  their  value  was  first  discovered.  Instead  of  doing 
this,  he  had  unfortunately  been  among  the  earliest  counsellors  of 
reckless  speculation.  My  father  was  always  able  to  remind  my 
mother  of  the  sagacious  counsel  In  worldly  wisdom  that  she  had 
brought  back  from  her  Sunday  visits  to  Highbury.  As  time  passed 
my  Uncle  Francis  had  found  it  convenient  to  forget  these,  or  had 
taken  refuge  in  a  shifty  distinction  between  his  advice  given  as  an 
unconcerned  bystander,  and  his  official  decisions  as  a  Trustee, 
spoken  ex  cathedra  with  a  sense  of  his  obligation  to  the  sacred 
Settlement. 

I  can  recollect  a  special  conversation  between  him  and  my 
mother,  in  a  Sunday  afternoon  conclave  at  Highbury,  in  which  he 
recapitulated  and  rounded  off  his  standpoint — these  words  are  his, 
not  mine.  It  occurred  shortly  before  the  conversation  between 
my  parents  given  above,  and  was  probably  the  cause  of  it.  My 
grandmother's  chair  was  empty;  she  was  keeping  her  bed  as  a 
protection  against  bitter  cold  weather.  But  a  folding  door,  incom- 
pletely unfolded  by  about  two  degrees,  allowed  her  voice  passage- 
way. For  she  slept  on  the  same  floor,  and  neither  she  nor  her 
high-backed  chair  on  wheels  was  visible  in  the  drawing-room  on 
this  particular  Sunday. 

"  Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,  Ca3cilia,"  said  my  uncle  to  my 
mother,  as  he  stood  before  the  roasting  fire,  caressing  the  welcome 
heat  with  leg-wriggles.  "  But  that's  what  you  had  better  tell 
Nathaniel.  Tell  him  from  me."  And  my  uncle  kept  on  taking 
snuff  with  an  eye  on  my  mother;  only  one,  because  the  other  shut 
itself  to  accommodate  the  inhaling  nostril. 

"  Tell  him  what  ? "  asked  mother.  For  I  believe  Uncle  Francis 
had  referred  to  something  purely  visionary. 

However,  the  vision  must  have  been  a  vivid  one,  inasmuch  as 
he  then  embarked  without  fear  on  what  professed  to  be  a  crisp 
abstract  of  something  much  longer.  Its  effect  was  that  the 
Heliconides  never  were  my  father's  own  to  put  up  to  auction,  and 
that  even  if  they  had  been,  the  sum  they  realized,  as  well  as  the 
usufruct  thereof,  would  have  belonged  to  the  Settlement.  What- 
ever investment  my  father  had  made  of  this  sum,  he  had  made  on 
his  own  responsibility  without  consulting  his  co-Trustees,  and  as 
their  supineness  would  have  been  held  to  relieve  my  father  from 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  75 

responsibility  for  loss  on  a  bad  investment,  they  were  equally  en- 
titled to  all  profit  accruing  from  a  good  one.  The  same  argument 
applied  to  subsequent  employment  of  such  profits,  and  the  Settle- 
ment, in  short,  was  entitled  to  benefit  by  the  whole  of  my  father's 
successful  speculations. 

I  fancy  I  have  heard  that  it  is  a  legal  maxim  that  no  man  can 
profit  by  his  own  neglect.  Or  am  I  imputing  common  sense  to 
Law?  If  there  is  such  a  maxim,  I  have  no  doubt  my  uncle  knew 
it.  But  he  was  relying  on  my  father's  Arcadian  simplicity  when  he 
propounded  this  very  singular  claim.  He  actually  proceeded  to 
justify  his  argument  by  the  fact  that  a  criminal  misappropriation 
of  cash  cannot  be  atoned  for  by  a  simple  refund  after  detection, 
even  with  interest;  and  he  had  the  effrontery  to  wind  up  with 
"  What's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander — eh,  Csecilia?  " 

"  I  cannot  undertake  to  follow  you  through  all  the  legal  aspects 
of  this  subject,"  said  my  mother,  when  my  uncle,  whose  views  had 
received  support  at  intervals  from  my  grandmother  through  the 
door,  brought  them  to  an  end  very  much  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
"  But  this  I  will  say,  that  I  do  not  understand  why  Trustees  should 
not  be  at  liberty  to  consult  the  interest  of  their  relations  by  more 
advantageous  investments  than  they  do  at  present.  That  they 
might  do  so  without  risk  is  surely  a  lesson  we  may  learn  from  my 
husband's  experience.  They  would  not  need  to  run  any  more  risks 
than  he  has,  merely  following  the  guiding  rule  of  investment  in 
approved  securities  at  a  high  rate  of  interest."  My  mother  warmed 
to  her  subject,  and  went  on  to  sketch  a  system  of  investment  in 
concerns  which  should  give  a  statutory  undertaking  to  refund  the 
price  of  the  shares  in  the  event  of  the  non-success  of  their  enter- 
prise. I  have  always  thought  this  a  capital  idea,  and  wished  com- 
mercial people  would  take  it  up.  It  is  as  good  as  the  notion, 
familiar  to  so  many  advanced  reformers,  of  throwing  the  burden, 
of  taxation  entirely  on  the  undeserving  classes — capitalists,  land- 
owners and  the  like. 

My  uncle  replied  to  these  suggestions  on  well-worn  lines,  saying 
it  was  easy  to  be  wise  after  the  fact,  and  so  forth.  He  dwelt  upon 
his  duty  as  a  Trustee,  and  on  his  own  liability  to  the  Court  of 
Chancery.  But  I  don't  think  my  mother  paid  much  attention  to 
what  he  said.  In  these  discussions  she  always  endeavoured  to  keep 
in  view  her  own  superiority  to  dross,  her  natural  position  as  moral 
arbiter,  and  her  claim  to  sagacity  in  worldly  matters.  She  resumed 
the  subject  with  a  due  sense  of  these  responsibilities.  "  What  you 
say,  Francis,  would  undoubtedly  hold  good  in  any  ordinary  case. 
In  that  of  a  mere  speculator,  the  appropriation  of  a  trust-fund  to 


76  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

what  you  choose  to  call  gambling  purposes  would  be  unwarrantable, 
because  of  the  risk.  In  the  hands  of  my  husband,  as  events  have 
shown,  the  result  was  a  certainty.  That  being  now  proved,  it  seems 
to  me  that  Nathaniel  will  do  all  that  can  be  expected  of  him  if, 
as  I  suggest,  he  pays  into  the  Trust  a  sum  equal  to  the  exact  value 
at  this  moment  of  the  two  vases  that  were  sold  three  years  ago  for 
twelve  hundred  pounds.  That  can  be  easily  ascertained  by  inquiry 
in  the  proper  quarters."  My  mother  paused,  with  dignity.  She  was 
evidently  proud  of  the  way  she  stated  her  views. 

I  don't  believe  my  uncle  was  equal  to  pointing  out  at  a  moment's 
notice  the  rich  crop  of  fallacies  that  flourished  in  my  mother's 
garden  of  accepted  phrases.  I  rather  think  he  said,  sot  to  voce, 
"  Women  don't  understand  these  things,''  or  something  to  the  same 
popular  effect.  I  am  sure  he  was  not  sorry  when  my  granny's  voice 
came  through  the  door,  none  the  clearer  for  a  slight  bronchial 
threatening. 

The  old  lady's  exordium  took  in  detail  all  the  persons  involved  in 
the  discussion,  enjoining  the  two  present  not  to  be  fools,  and 
directing  them  to  tell  my  father  and  any  one  disposed  to  take  his 
part,  not  to  be  fools  either.  She  then  went  on,  addressing  my  Uncle 
Francis: — "  You  just  use  your  wits,  Frank,  and  get  at  Nathaniel's 
money  before  he  squanders  it  all  away,  and  put  it  out  of  his  reach. 
Put  it  in  a  safe  investment,  and  don't  be  an  idiot."  She  then  dwelt 
on  a  painful  experience  of  her  early  youth,  how  a  cousin  of  hers, 
Crofton  Skipwith — hers  was  a  family  with  connections — had  won 
thirty  thousand  pounds  of  the  Prince  Regent,  and  would  have  died 
a  rich  man  instead  of  a  pauper,  if  only  he  would  have  stopped  play- 
ing at  the  right  time.  Also,  consider  Mr.  Skidney's  friend  on  the 
turf  who  won  twenty-four  thousand  on  the  favourite  and  lost  forty- 
two  on  Saucy  Sally  the  same  day.  Consider  these  and  other  cases, 
and  hinder  Xathaniel  from  behaving  like  a  fool. 

My  uncle  walked  the  length  of  the  room  and  back,  and  gave  the 
radiant  heat  a  short  chance  to  get  out  into  public  life.  But  he 
soon  intercepted  it  again;  and,  after  a  silence  which  I  suppose  was 
due  to  the  shock  of  the  cold  from  an  Arctic  bay-window  he  had 
looked  at  a  lamplighter  through,  spoke  thus  to  my  mother: — "  You 
see  what  mamma  says — eh,  Csecilin  '.  " 

He  then  proceeded  to  eulogize  Mr.  Skidney,  or  Little  Tommy,  as 
li«-  called  him.  He  wasn't  showy.  He  wasn't  one  of  your  new- 
fangled Msiyswater  stuck-uppers,  strutting  and  swelling  about.  He 
wasn't  much  to  look  at.  But  for  powers  of  reflection  and  ratiocina- 
tion, no  one  would  believe  in  the  amount  of  thinkin'  that  man 
would  get  through  in  a  day.  And  for  sound  advice  on  worldly 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  77 

matters,  all  my  uncle  said  was: — "Give  Little  Tommy  a  mild 
Havana,  and  don't  hurry  him." 

"  But,  my  dear  Francis,"  said  my  mother,  "  what  did  Mr.  Skidney 
say  this  time,  when  he  got  his  Havana?  That's  what  I  want  to 
get  at." 

"  Little  Tommy  said,  Csecilia,  when  I  told  him  my  views,  that 
no  run  of  luck  lasts  for  ever,  and  that  the  sooner  your  husband  put 
forty  thousand  pounds  or  so  into  settlement  the  better  for  you  and 
him,  and  the  worse  for  his  creditors  when  he  bursts  up,  which  is 
according  to  me  the  point  we  ought  to  keep  in  view — when  I  said 
this  to  Little  Tommy,  he  shut  one  eye  and  said : — '  You  stick  to 
that,  Wiggy ! '  It  wasn't  much  in  words,  but  Tommy  has  a  manner 
with  him,'  that  speaks  volumes."  Have  I  mentioned  that  Wigram 
was  my  mother's  maiden  name? 

My  uncle  dwelt  for  some  time  on  the  great  value  and  weight 
of  Mr.  Skidney's  judgments,  and  on  their  perfect  accord  with  his 
own.  But  he  did  not  report  these  judgments  at  length,  and  indeed 
they  seemed  to  have  been  oracular  in  character,  like  the  above. 

My  mother  had  a  most  disconcerting  habit  of  sudden  abdication; 
only  the  word  is  not  strong  enough.  One  cannot  say  those  spiders 
abdicate,  who,  if  they  wish  to  avoid  your  notice,  vibrate  so  rapidly 
as  to  become  invisible.  This  habit  of  my  mother's  was  apt  to 
assume  the  form  of  intentional  somnambulism.  Perhaps  one  might 
more  properly  say  intentional  Nirvana.  Anyhow,  at  this  point  she 
closed  her  eyes,  and  after  remaining  motionless  for  some  seconds, 
said  submissively: — "I  am  in  your  hands." 

Said  my  uncle  unexpectedly : — "  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  are  going 
to  take  that  tone,  I  can't  talk."  He  took  snuff  pianissimo,  but 
sostenuto,  slightly  adjusting  his  nostrils  with  the  flat  of  his  thumb. 

Said  my  grandmother  then,  as  a  sort  of  stage  direction  to  con- 
temporary history : — "  Now  temper !  "  Perhaps  the  wording,  "  Ex- 
asperation at  this  point,  please,  till  further  notice!"  would  have 
conveyed  her  meaning  better  to  a  perfect  stranger. 

My  mother's  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  say  nothing,"  implied  tolera- 
tion for  individualities  in  her  family  that  she  was  not  herself 
subject  to,  and  readiness  for  peaceful  compromise  in  stormy  situa- 
tions arising  from  them. 

To  the  best  of  my  recollection  my  uncle,  not  to  be  behindhand 
in  magnanimity,  said: — "  Perhaps  we  had  better  talk  of  something 
else."  The  conversation  was  then  turned  mechanically  on  a  luke- 
warm topic,  and  languished.  I  went  away  to  my  sister  Gracey  in 
another  room,  and  read  books  until  we  were  summoned  to  depart. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  by  that  time  the  disputants  were  hammer 


78  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  tongs  at  the  Settlement  again,  with  no  prospect  of  the  dispute 
ending.    The  lukewarm  topic  had  had  no  staying  power. 

The  loggerheads  that  my  father  and  uncle  came  to  must  have 
been  within  a  measurable  distance  at  this  date,  and  very  near  at 
hand  indeed  at  that  of  the  conversation  I  overheard  and  have 
described  between  my  father  and  mother  in  the  silent  hours  of  the 
night  in  Mecklenburg  Square.  Being  young  I  paid  very  little  more 
attention  to  it  than  if  it  had  been  cats. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

THE  way  in  which  Mr.  Skidney  hung  about,  or  rather  was  sus- 
pended about,  these  controversial  interchanges  between  my  father 
and  uncle  through  the  medium  of  my  mother,  did  not  amuse  me 
then  as  it  came  to  do  in  after  years,  when  my  boyish  acceptance 
of  my  seniors  as  sound  and  reasonable  had  given  way  to  my  later 
appreciation  of  most  of  them  as  Fools.  It  took  time  for  me  to 
grasp  the  fact  that  my  uncle  paraded  an  esoteric  Mr.  Skidney — 
an  imaginary  Being  of  deep  thought  and  experience — before  my 
mother's  eyes  in  defiance  of  the  palpable  fact  that  the  exoteric 
Mr.  Skidney  was  a  woe-begone  and  brainless  little  victim  of  late 
hours  and  whiskey-and-water.  The  image  thus  produced  on  my 
mother's  mind  grew  and  grew  as  our  neat  brougham — no  longer  a 
paltry  fly! — bore  us  back  to  Mecklenburg  Square,  and  was  shortly 
exhibited  to  my  father  as  that  of  a  Bank  Director  in  marching 
order,  with  private  secretaries  and  appointments  and  mahogany 
drawers  and  things.  My  father's  image  of  the  little  man,  based  on 
this,  was  I  am  sure  that  of  a  sort  of  Buddha  in  a  Temple  of 
Responsibility,  with  a  chronic  frown  of  weighty  consideration  in 
place  of  a  happy  smile  intended  to  last  for  ever,  but  with  an 
analogous  stomach.  I  ascribe  to  my  father  at  this  date  an  auto- 
matic respect  for  the  decisions  of  this  Buddha;  a  pious  awe  of 
its  watch-chain  and  gold  pencil-case;  a  disposition,  in  picturing 
to  himself  its  stove-pipe  hat,  to  look  for  a  few  seconds  in  his  own. 

It  may  have  had  an  influence  with  him  in  the  course  he  took. 
He  wrote  a  cheque  for  a  sum  which  he  arrived  at  by  adding  interest 
at  eight  per  cent  to  twelve  hundred  pounds,  assuming  that  to 
be  the  value  of  the  Heliconides  at  the  date  of  his  marriage,  counting 
the  interest  as  from  his  wedding-day,  and  sent  it  to  my  uncle  to 
pay  into  the  Trust-fund,  in  clearance  of  his  own  indebtedness. 
My  uncle,  who  must  have  known,  whatever  tale  he  told  my  mother, 
that  no  legal  or  equitable  claim  would  have  held  good  against  my 
father  for  anything  beyond  the  bare  sale  price  of  the  vases — and 
that  even  that  was  doubtful — declined  to  accept  it  in  discharge 
of  this  liability,  and  returned  it  to  my  father  with  a  letter  in 
which  he  endeavoured  to  work  upon  his  feelings  to  induce  him  to 

79 


80  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

place  a  much  larger  sum  in  settlement,  out  of  reach  of  his  creditors. 

After  my  father's  death,  thirty  years  ago,  my  stepmother  found 
my  uncle's  letter  in  its  envelope,  with  the  cheque  enclosed,  and  sent 
it  to  me.  I  need  not  say  that  I  cannot  recall  much  of  it,  but  I 
have  still  a  recollection  of  some  of  its  phrases,  which  seem  to 
indicate  that  the  first  of  the  loggerheads  was  at  least  in  sight.  It 
was  of  course  wordy,  and  showed  its  writer's  extraordinary  capacity 
for  satisfying  his  desire  for  a  meaning  with  any  set  phrase  that 
happened  to  come  to  hand.  For  instance,  "  However  anxious  we 
may  be  to  disguise  the  fact  from  ourselves,"  is  a  meaningless  intro- 
duction to  "  A  Man's  first  duty  is  to  his  Wife  and  Family."  If  my 
uncle  had  written,  "Every  one  must  admit  that  a  man's  first 
duty,"  and  so  on,  it  would  have  been  more  rational.  But  then  it 
wouldn't  have  sounded  so  majestic.  I  don't  believe  he  meant  to 
insinuate  that  my  father  was  anxious  to  shirk  his  duties  as  a 
husband  and  parent.  It  was  merely  an  excursion  into  sententious- 
ness  of  a  pen  that  may  have  been  credulous  enough  to  believe  that 
its  holder's  brain  was  that  of  a  cultivated  man.  Or  it  may  have 
thought  otherwise.  In  either  case  the  result  was  the  same.  A 
loggerhead  loomed  in  the  mist,  and  grew  daily  more  distinct. 

As  for  myself  during  this  period,  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in 
cricket  and  chemistry — or  an  engrossing  delight  I  gave  that  name 
to — to  be  much  impressed  by  family  disputes.  My  youthful  op- 
timism decided  that  they  were  all  in  order  and  for  the  best,  in 
the  best  of  all  possible  worlds,  subject  only  to  a  general  reserva- 
tion that  my  father  was  in  the  right,  I  doubt  if  the  incident  of  the 
cheque  would  ever  have  caught  and  held,  if  it  had  not  happened 
to  intersect  with  a  school-study  which  I  resented  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul,  called  Compound  Interest.  I  had  heard  my  father  say 
to  my  mother: — "Well,  Caxnlia,  I  shall  send  Francis  the  cheque 
anyhow.  And  to  make  it  all  fair,  and  put  the  matter  beyond  a 
doubt,  we'll  make  it  Compound  Interest."  To  which  my  mother 
had  replied: — "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Nathaniel,  that  you  can- 
not '  do  that,  because  Compound  Interest  is  illegal."  My  father 
replied  equably : — "  Very  good  then  !  If  it's  illegal,  Frank's  a  lawyer 
and  can  take  out  a  summons,  or  apply  for  a  warrant,  or  some  game 
of  that  sort.  Here,  Eustace  John,  here's  a  sum  for  you  to  do. 
Compound  Interest  of  twelve  hundred  pounds  for  twenty-two  years 
at  five  per  cent." 

"Oh — that's  easy!"  said  I,  and  did  it.  It  took  time  though. 
When  it  was  done,  I  handed  the  result  to  my  father,  saying 
briefly: — "Here  you  are!"  Then  a  misgiving  had  crossed  my 
mind,  and  I  added : — "  But  I  say,  Pap !  " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  81 

"  Fire  away,  Son  and  Heir,"  said  he. 

"It  is  illegal,  isn't  it?" 

"What  is?" 

"  Compound  interest." 

}Iy  mother  did  not  say: — "You  have  treated  my  opinion  as 
worthless,  and  have  flouted  me.  But  you  will  find  I  am  right,  and 
Posterity  will  do  me  justice."  She  contrived  to  make  an  inclination 
of  her  head  tell  to  that  effect,  without  taking  her  eyes  off  the  letter 
she  was  writing. 

"  We're  a  mighty  clever  young  man,"  said  my  father,  referring 
to  me  obliquely  in  the  third  person  plural.  "  Who  told  us  that 
story?" 

"  All  the  boys,"  said  I.     "  They're  quite  sure  of  it." 

"  Then  it  must  be  true,"  said  my  father,  with  immovable  gravity. 
He  looked  at  the  total  I  had  handed  him,  and  added : — "  As  it  works 
out  rather  high,  and  it's  illegal,  suppose  we  say  nothing  about 
Compound  Interest." 

But  my  mother  had  no  idea  of  letting  my  father  off.  She  did 
not  scruple  to  taunt  him  with  catching  at  the  illegality  of  Com- 
pound Interest  as  an  excuse  for  making  a  lesser  payment.  It  was 
permissible  obviously  to  make  any  refund  as  an  act  of  Justice  or 
Generosity,  but  an  indictable  offence  to  do  it  as  Compound  Interest. 
He  compromised  the  matter — I  think — by  fixing  the  amount  as 
simple  Interest  at  eight  per  cent,  which  my  mother  found  satis- 
factory— I  am  pretty  sure  the  cheque  my  uncle  returned  was  for 
three  thousand  four  hundred  odd.  One  recollects  hundreds,  doubts 
tens,  and  forgets  units  with  alacrity.  Thousands  of  course  are 
branded  for  ever  on  the  tablets  of  Memory — heavenly  records,  on 
the  right  side  of  the  account ! 

But  the  cheque  was  returned,  and  the  writing  of  it  was  impressed 
on  my  mind  by  the  unsavoury  appearance  of  Compound  Interest  in 
the  discussion.  I  don't  think  the  exhibition  of  Compound  Rhubarb 
could  have  been  more  unwelcome.  However,  it  was  an  easy  sum  to 
do!  Why! — old  Cox,  our  schoolmaster  in  this  department,  thought 
nothing,  for  instance,  of  asking  to  have  it  made  known  to  him  how 
much  would  six  millions  two  hundred  and  fifty-five  thousand  pounds 
nine  shillings  and  tenpence  farthing  amount  to  in  a  hundred  and 
twenty-nine  years,  five  months,  four  days,  six  hours  and  eleven 
minutes,  at  five  pounds  eighteen  and  two  pence  three-farthings 
per  cent!  Compound  Interest.  Old  Cox  was  a  reincarnation  of 
Caligula  at  his  worst,  who  no  doubt  would  have  asked  exactly  this 
very  question,  caeteris  paribus. 

The  impression  on  my  own  mind  of  my  father's  and  uncle's 


82  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

loggerheads,  or  their  proximity,  was  that  they  were  an  inevitable 
condition  of  things,  perfectly  right  under  the  circumstances,  re- 
flecting some  credit  on  my  father  certainly,  but  no  serious  discredit 
on  my  uncle.  I  doubt  too  whether  Varnish  was  right  in  speaking  of 
them  as  actually  "  come  to  ";  indeed  I  am  doubtful  whether  logger- 
heads by  post  can  have  more  than  a  metaphorical  existence.  It 
might  have  been  otherwise  if  my  father  and  uncle  had  met  oftener. 
They  might  have  come  to  angry  recriminations  if  they  had  not 
been  kept  in  check  by  the  exigencies  of  pens  and  paper,  the  re- 
reading next  morning  of  the  cutting  civility  of  the  letter  we 
thought  so  clever  overnight.  Or,  per  contra,  honest  scolding  might 
have  been  much  less  irritating  than  such  letters,  rashly  sent  to 
the  post  by  some  well-meaning  person  who  was  passing  a  post-office 
and  it  was  no  trouble  at  all,  really.  I  am  almost  sorry  these  lines 
will  never  meet  any  one's  eyes,  who  might  take  advantage  of  my 
appeal  to  mankind,  never  to  carry  the  letters  of  his  fellow-creatures 
to  the  post,  short  of  actual  supplication  to  do  so;  or,  better  still, 
without  knowing  their  contents.  Did  you  ever  feel  sorry  you 
abstained  from  sending  that  first  letter,  and  wrote  another  one  ? 

However,  actually  or  metaphorically,  strained  relations  existed; 
which  Varnish  described  as  loggerheads,  and  I  regarded  as  normal 
and  had  no  particular  view  about,  except  that  my  Governor  was 
right.  Varnish  agreed  with  me  on  this  point,  but  was  equally  clear 
my  mother  was  wrong.  Not  that  her  speech  on  the  subject  would 
have  conveyed  her  opinion  to  any  one  not  in  possession  of  all  the 
facts.  She  was  so  often  at  variance  with  standard  Dictionaries 
as  to  the  precise  meaning  of  words  that  she  scarcely  gave  herself  a 
fair  chance  of  being  understood.  For  instance,  she  said  to  me 
once : — "  Your  mar  is  that  absolute,  Master  Eustace,  fetching  and 
carrying  and  telling,  my  only  wonder  is  there's  been  no  previous 
hot  water,  and  I  say  it's  a  Mercy." 

I  perfectly  understood  Varnish,  knowing  what  she  referred  to, 
but  I  was  preoccupied  with  another  subject.  So  after  saying 
briefly  and  disrespectfully,  "  I  think  the  mater  had  better  shut 
up,"  I  referred  to  it,  "  I  say,  Varnish,  do  you  know  that  when 
granulated  Zinc  is  treated  with  dilute  Sulphuric  Acid,  commer- 
cially known  as  Oil  of  Vitriol,  caloric  is  generated  with  evolution 
of  Hydrogen,  and  a  neutral  Sulphate  of  Zinc  remains  in  solution  ? " 

"  There  now,  Master  Eustace !  "  said  Varnish.  "  To  think  of  your 
knowing  all  that  Chemistry !  "  But  she  felt  that  Science  could  not 
be  blindly  relied  on,  and  continued: — "  But  it  smells  nasty,  I  lay!  " 

"  You  can't  smell  it  in  the  next  room,"  said  I,  keeping  in  view 
a  licensed  course  of  Experimental  Research  to  come.  But  I  was 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  83 

also  concerned  for  the  fame  of  Berzelius  and  Davy.  "  That's 
nothing !  "  I  remarked.  "  You  should  smell  Bisulphide  of  Carbon. 
"That's  something  like  a  smell!  Crikey!" 

Which  reminds  me  forcibly — up  to  digression  point — that  this 
happened  in  the  days  when  boys,  and  even  grown  men,  said 
"  Crikey !  "  to  relieve  astonishment,  or  express  admiration.  It  is  to 
me,  if  not  a  solemn,  at  least  a  strange  thought,  that  unless  there 
chances  to  be  living  some  veteran,  not  brought  up  to  date,  who 
still  says  "  Crikey !  "  there  must  have  been  a  moment  in  these 
last  years  that  have  fled,  when  "  Crikey!  "  was  actually  said  for  the 
last  time.  Think  of  it! — if  we  had  been  there  and  could  have 
known  it!  A  little  landmark,  but  a  clear  one,  in  a  journey  that 
had  left  youth  behind!  But  if  ever  these  words  are  read,  will  he 
who  reads  them  even  recognize  "  Crikey!  "? 

I  suppose  there  still  are  survivors  of  Chemistry,  as  I  understood 
it;  superannuated  lecturers  in  long  extinct  Institutions,  perhaps, 
who  do  not  in  their  inmost  hearts  believe  but  that  Carbonic  Acid 
was  really  Carbonic  Acid  all  along,  not  merely  Carbon  Dioxide.  It 
makes  me  half  glad  to  be  so  far  from  the  madding  crowd,  that  I 
dare  to  write  of  Bisulphide  of  Carbon  without  fear  of  rebuke,  know- 
ing that  it  is  really  something  else  all  the  time.  It  smells  just 
as  nasty  now — that's  one  comfort! 

Varnish  never  smelt  it,  so  far  as  I  know.  Had  she  done  so,  I 
am  sure  she  would  have  been  ready  with  a  tribute,  of  some  sort, 
to  the  memory  of  Berzelius  and  Davy.  But  her  experience  of  my 
later  researches  had  made  her  suspicious  of  precipitates  and  reac- 
tions generally,  in  spite  of  their  plausible  appearance  and  frequent 
apathy.  My  earlier  ones,  which  followed  the  lines  indicated  in  a 
work  called  The  Boy's  Own  Book  had  been  countenanced  by 
her  on  the  ground  that  nothing  ever  come  of  any  such  silliness, 
and  how  ever  could  any  one  expect  it?  Her  view  that  the  details 
of  experiments  supplied  in  this  work  were  on  the  face  of  them 
mendacious  misdirection,  published  to  mislead  the  credulous  with 
promises  of  concussions  and  sudden  unwarrantable  changes  of 
colour  that  never  came  off,  was  not  quite  without  justification,  as 
witness  my  earliest  essay  towards  following  them  out.  The  text 
boldly  stated  that  such  persons  as  placed  a  cork  impaled  by  a  short 
tube  in  the  mouth  of  a  bottle,  having  previously  introduced  "  caout- 
chouc "  into  the  said  bottle,  would  be  rewarded  for  their  labours  by 
the  appearance  of  a  jet  of  flame,  burning  at  the  end  of  the  said 
tube,  of  course  on  application  of  a  lighted  match.  MY  sister 
Gracey  and  I  were  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  when  all  the  ar- 
rangements were  complete,  but  as  was  to  be  expected  the  fragment 


84  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

of  Indian  Rubber  we  had  requisitioned,  from  the  piece  known  to 
the  household  as  "  The  India  Rubber,"  remained  callous  and  sta- 
tionary, and  nothing  ignited.  Our  disappointment  was  bitter. 
Having  the  solemn  assurance  of  print  before  our  eyes,  we  felt  as 
though  the  solid  earth  had  failed  beneath  our  feet.  Varnish  was 
content  to  point  out  the  verification  of  her  prediction. 

The  only  explanation  I  can  devise  for  this  miscarriage  of 
Science  is  that  possibly  the  writer  should  have  said  "  caoutchou- 
cine";  which  is,  I  am  told — unlike  my  Self — a  spirit  with  a  very 
low  flashpoint.  If  so,  it  is  another  proof,  if  one  were  wanted,  of 
the  wisdom  of  using  words  with  an  eye  to  their  meaning,  without 
fear  or  favour. 

I  fancy  that  it  was  just  as  well  that  we  should  not  call  spirits 
with  low  flash-points  from  the  vasty  deep,  in  this  case  represented 
by  the  shop  where  I  bought  chemicals  whenever  funds  permitted. 
Gracey  and  I  might  have  had  an  explosion  worse  than  the  worst 
we  contrived  with  the  materials  available.  I  remember  it  well. 
To  you  chlorate  of  potash  spells  lozenges  for  a  relaxed  throat;  to 
me  it  is  a  crystalline  salt  which  being  pulverized  with  its  own,  or 
something  else's,  weight  of  lump  sugar,  acquires  what  in  my  youth 
I  seem  to  have  considered  a  desirable  property — this  reads  as  if  the 
Pytchley  Hunt  would  come  next — but  which  I  now  regard  as  a 
drawback.  Surely,  even  when  an  ill-advised  bystander  drops  one 
drop  of  concentrated  Sulphuric  acid  on  a  mixture,  it  is  better  that 
it  should  not  explode  suddenly.  So  I  think  now,  but  in  that  happy 
time  I  thought  otherwise;  deeming  sudden  explosion  an  advantage, 
and  Scientific.  Gracey  and  I  powdered  a  perilous  lot  of  the  salt, 
and  made  the  atrocious  composition.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Science 
responded,  this  time,  and  did  credit  to  the  memory  of  Davy  and 
Berzelius.  The  explosion  was  all  that  could  be  desired.  My  eye- 
sight was  miraculously  preserved,  but  my  eyelashes  and  hair  were 
turned  to  stubble.  They  have  had  time  to  grow  again  and  again, 
and  fall  away  at  last  since  then,  and  what  is  now  left  of  them  is 
colourless. 

But  the  smell  of  the  polish  of  the  Chemical  Cabinet  which  started 
this  career — O  the  rashness  of  that  gift  of  my  father's! — is  with 
me  still,  and  the  images  of  its  bottles  and  its  test  tubes  and  its 
small  allowances  in  pill-boxes  of  such  chemicals  as  had  the  sense 
not  to  be  hygrometric;  and  its  stopper-bottles  containing  horrors, 
chuckling  to  themselves  over  the  way  they  meant  to  destroy  my 
clothes;  and  its  two  scraps  of  litmus  and  turmeric  test  papers  which 
would  detect  all  sorts  of  things,  only  you  had  to  be  so  careful  to 
remember  which  was  which;  all  these  are  with  me  still,  and  I  can 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  *:, 

He  here  and  wonder  now  what  possessed  my  parents  to  let  me 
appropriate  that  celebrated  attic  where  The  Man  unpacked  Pan- 
dora's box,  and  devote  it  to  what  Varnish  rightly  called  my  messes. 
So  much  did  I  appropriate  it,  that  it  came  to  be  known  as  The 
Chemistry  Room;  and  if  it  were  possible  for  speech  to  come  again 
from  vanished  lips,  and  talk  could  turn  now  as  it  used  to  turn,  some 
trifle  of  thirty  or  forty  years  since,  on  what  we  then  fancied  was  a 
time-worn  memory  of  the  house  of  my  babyhood,  I  should  still  refer 
without  a  pause  to  "  The  Chemistry  Room,"  and  never  dream  the 
phrase  could  call  for  explanation.  But  my  old  nurse  was  the  last 
for  whom  it  held  its  meaning.  They  are  all  gone  now,  and  the 
last  flicker  of  the  old  familiar  names  will  soon  die  down  in  the 
one  old  brain  that  holds  them,  and  leave  to  Oblivion  an  inheritance 
of  darkness. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  CAN  fix  the  date  of  what  I  am  about  to  disinter  from  the  past ; 
a  morning  of  the  year  fifty-three,  shortly  before  Christmas,  when 
I  was  on  my  way  to  fourteen  years  of  age.  Too  old,  that  is,  to 
leave  me  room  for  wonder,  now,  at  sudden  vivid  flashes,  as  I  write, 
of  memories  long  forgotten ;  things  not  to  be  recalled  at  will,  but 
clear  as  daylight  in  this  haphazard  resurrection.  But  I  did  wonder, 
mind  you,  at  the  like  illuminations  of  my  babyhood! 

There  was  a  Sense  fog  that  morning.  The  gas,  burning  through- 
out the  house  with  a  nerveless  flame,  as  though  the  sudden  run  upon 
its  resources  had  overtaxed  them,  was  itself  barely  visible;  and 
the  choked  combustion  was  struggling  for  life  even  as  the  choked 
lungs  of  the  household  were  struggling  for  breath.  A  universal 
paralysis  reigned  over  things  animate  and  inanimate.  Fires  were 
refusing  to  burn  with  the  only  eloquence  at  their  disposal,  the  pro- 
duction of  smoke,  which  went  reluctantly  up  the  chimney  to  help 
the  fog  without.  The  urn,  discouraged  by  the  introduction  of  a 
lukewarm  piece  of  cast  iron  into  its  vitals,  was  yielding  tepid  water; 
and  yesterday's  milk,  pathetically  submitted  in  a  jug  adapted  to  its 
volume,  was  confessing,  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  at  a 
quarter-to-nine — "eight-forty-five"  was  unknown  in  those  days — 
that  the  milk  proper  had  not  yet  come,  and  suggesting  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  its  sponsor,  a  person  whose  appearance  laid 
claim  to  rural  innocence  and  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  vices  of 
Town.  At  least,  I  believed  that  to  be  the  import  of  an  embroidered 
'smock  and  a  peculiar  low-crowned  hat. 

I  was  due  at  school  at  a  quarter-past-nine,  but  not  deeply  con- 
cerned on  that  account,  as  there  was  a  general  leniency  in  the  air 
towards  demoralization,  owing  to  the  near  approach  of  Christmas. 
So  I  trifled  with  my  conscience  on  various  pretexts,  and  post- 
poned the  evil  hour  of  departure  into  the  cold.  The  Governor  would 
like  to  see  me  before  I  went,  and  he  wasn't  down  yet.  Also  the 
clock  was  five  minutes  fast.  Also  old  Rameau — the  master  of  my 
first  class,  for  I  started  with  French  in  the  morning — wouldn't  be 
there  till  half-past. 

On  second  thoughts  the  clock  was  ten  minutes  fast.  I  couldn't 

86 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  87 

swear  that  my  governor  hadn't  said,  "  Wait  till  I  come  down,  you 
young  scaramouch !  "  from  the  inner  recesses  of  his  dressing-room, 
though  I  had  only  slender  grounds  for  imputing  such  a  speech 
to  him — my  ignorance  of  what  he  had  said  being  the  chief 
one. 

On  third  thoughts  that  clock  was  a  quarter  fast.  It  didn't 
matter.  Nothing  mattered.  I  couldn't  be  in  time  now,  anyhow! 
Just  as  well  be  late  in  earnest,  while  I  was  about  it! 

Varnish,  passing  kitchenwards,  said: — "Your  par,  he's  out  of 
his  dressing-room,  Master  Eustace,  and  what  he'll  say  I  don't 
know.  Fancy  his  finding  you  not  gone,  and  it  getting  on  for  ten 
o'clock!"  Varnish's  speech  called  for  knowledge  of  its  why  and 
wherefore,  to  make  it  intelligible. 

But  I  refused  to  accept  the  official  view  of  my  father,  within  a 
week  of  Christmas.  My  last  justification  of  delay  turned  on  the 
unimportance  of  Modern  Languages,  as  against  the  Classics. 
French  wasn't  Latin.  Nothing  was  less  important  than  French; 
except  indeed  German ;  which,  like  Dancing,  was  optional.  But 
only  some  twenty  families  seemed  ever  to  be  in  an  optative  mood 
about  either.  Latin  was  the  plat  fort  of  the  school,  in  my  day,  and 
on  that  morning  my  first  Latin  class  was  at  a  quarter-past-ten. 

I  think  the  reason  of  my  wish  to  see  my  father  before  diving 
into  the  fog  was  in  a  great  measure  that  I  had  overheard  dissension 
between  himself  and  my  mother  through  the  cancelled  door  of  my 
room,  the  night  before.  Whenever  this  happened  I  always  wished 
to  see  him  complete  next  day;  safe  in  his  groove,  and  lubricated; 
qualified,  as  it  were,  for  further  existence.  There  had  been  marked 
asperities  in  their  concert  this  time;  sharp  accents  on  my  father's 
side,  on  my  mother's  the  loud  pedal,  frequently.  Also,  disturbance 
in  the  night  had  crept  into  my  dreams.  The  amount  of  friction 
seemed  to  have  gone  beyond  ordinary  Settlement,  or  my  mother  had 
been  ill.  Or  both. 

He  was  worried,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  He  came  straight 
downstairs  and  passed  me  by  in  the  passage,  and  had  rung  the 
dining-room  bell  before  he  said  to  me: — "Hullo! — you're  a  nice 
character.  What  are  you  doing  here,  this  time  of  day?  Go  and 
catch  Varnish,  and  send  her  to  your  mother."  But  Varnish  was 
on  her  way  to  the  bedroom.  So,  said  my  father,  that  was  all  right! 
But  how  about  me?  "What  are  you  doing  here,  you  profligate 
youth  ? "  he  continued.  "  Why  aren't  you  at  school  ?  " 

I  began  a  statement,  incorporating  contradictory  excuses;  but 
he  stopped  me  with,  "  Good  job  you're  not.  perhaps ! — make  your- 
self useful  " — meaning,  maybe  I  might !  "  Look  here,  you  immoral 


88  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

young  scamp,  just  you  take  this  lettert — wait  till  I've  written  it! — 
to  Dr.  Scammony  in  Bernard  Street,  and  wait  for  the  answer." 

"  Is  mamma  ill !  "  I  asked.  My  father  did  not  reply  until  he  had 
written  a  brief  note  in  a  hurry,  as  I  have  seen  letters — long  ones 
— written  on  the  stage.  "  One  or  two  tablespoonf  uls  three  times  a 
day,  That  kind  of  thing.  Now  trot ! " 

I  believe  I  said  something  my  father  either  did  not  hear,  or 
ignored,  reflecting  on  the  medical  skill  of  our  family  doctor,  whose 
name  was  not  really  Scammony,  but  Hammond.  I  always  treated 
him  with  scorn,  but  without  assigned  reason.  Having  expressed 
my  contempt  for  him,  I  trotted,  as  directed,  leaving  my  father 
feeling  round  on  his  face  for  some  solution  of  the  perplexity  that 
was  visible  on  it.  He  always  did  that,  and  never  seemed  to  find  it. 

I  am  as  sure  as  I  am  of  anything  in  this  uncertain  world,  that 
my  father  loved  my  mother  dearly,  devotedly.  Why  he  did  so,  I 
never  was  able  to  discover.  But  that  he  did  love  her,  uphill  work 
as  it  must  have  been,  I  have  not  a  shadow  of  doubt.  I  am  sure 
that  if  she  had  asked  him  "  on  her  own  " — I  am  told  that  this  ex- 
pression is  Modern  English — to  pay  over  any  fraction,  or  the  whole, 
of  his  stockbroking  swag  into  her  settled  funds,  he  would  have  done 
it  straightway.  But  the  evil  genius  of  a  remorseless  egotism  must 
needs  set  her  a  flaunting  the  superior  wisdom  and  experience  of  her 
brothers  in  his  face,  and  the  fruit  of  his  successful  speculations 
became  an  Apple  of  Discord  as  venomous  as  the  one  Ate  put  into 
Settlement  for  the  Gods  at  that  feast  of  Olympus.  Hence  the 
dissensions  of  which  the  one  I  overheard  that  night  was  a  sample, 
in  which  a  certain  combativeness  of  my  father's  no  doubt  was  to 
blame  as  much  as  my  mother's  querulousness — or  overbearing, 
whichever  we  agree  to  call  it.  And  I  suspect  he  was  brewing  an 
indictment  against  himself  for  it  when  I  left  him;  saying  to  him- 
self, perhaps,  that  maybe  the  delicacy  my  mother  was  suspected  of 
was  more  real  than  he  had  hitherto  supposed,  and  that  more  for- 
bearance on  his  part  would  have  averted  bad  consequences  this 
time- ;  that  he  had  lost  his  temper,  in  fact,  and  was  to  blame. 

I  think  I  despised  Dr.  Scammony  because  he  was  bald  and  small. 
If  he  had  had  more  bounce  I  should  have  respected  him.  But  he 
was  the  meekest  little  man  with,  I  should  say,  the  meekest  little 
manner  within  the  scope  of  meekness.  When  he  had  read  twice 
through  my  father's  note,  he  said  absently: — "Cardiac  symptom. 
Then  I  shall  call  in  Jobson."  But  I  don't  think  he  knew  I  heard, 
or  thought  I  didn't  matter.  Then  he  looked  at  me  regretfully,  and 
shook  his  head.  He  played  a  chord  faintly,  with  open  fingers,  on 
each  of  my  lungs,  and  said : — "  Should  wrap  up !  "  Then  he  told 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  89 

me  to  run  along,  my  boy,  and  he  would  be  round  in  a  minute, 
and  I  was  to  tell  my  father.  But  I  had  to  go  to  school,  and  I  said 
so,  and  went.  My  father  had  given  me  instructions  not  to  return 
unless  Dr.  Scammony  was  unable  to  come  at  once. 

I  suppose  I  wasn't  reported  by  the  Cerberus  I  had  to  pass  before 
I  could  slip  in  and  mix  with  the  throng  of  boys  swarming  from 
class-room  to  class-room  at  the  end  of  the  first  hour,  for  I  was  never 
called  to  account  for  my  delinquency.  Certainly  I  told  Cerberus 
in  confidence  that  I  had  had  to  go  for  the  doctor  for  my  mater,  who 
was  seedy;  and  that  may  have  influenced  him  to  silence.  Anyhow, 
I  never  was  brought  to  book.  As  for  my  mother's  indisposition 
and  Dr.  Scammony,  I  soon  forgot  all  about  both,  with  the  renewal 
of  Latin  saturation,  having  for  its  object,  I  suppose,  the  cultivation 
of  a  distaste  for  the  Classics. 

In  these  days  I  never  went  home  to  dinner  at  midday.  The  usage 
had  come  to  an  end  at  my  special  desire.  I  preferred  the  Satur- 
nalia of  the  playground,  even  when  it  involved  neglect  of  a  so-called 
dinner,  in  Room  Zed — which  I  had  heaps  of  money  to  pay  for  if  I 
chose — or  the  satisfaction  of  hunger  with  the  most  unwholesome 
food  I  have  ever  tasted,  certain  hideous  confections  retailed  in  the 
playground  by  an  enemy  of  boys'  stomachs  called  "  The  pieman." 
I  can  revive  at  will  the  taste  of  any  of  it,  by  imagining  its  bearer 
bringing  it  on  a  tray,  hot  from  the  oven,  and  placing  the  tray  on 
a  chair  near  the  door  that  led  from  the  school  to  the  playground, 
and  the  rush  of  purchasers  that  followed.  The  penny  bun  was  the 
safest  to  eat,  peptically.  Then  came  the  Scotch  bun.  Then  the 
three-cornered  tart.  Then  the  meat-pie,  princeps  oltsonium,  judged 
by  its  indigestibility.  I  am  glad  to  say  they  were  all  gone,  that 
day  in  the  fog,  by  the  time  I  got  in  touch  with  their  vendor.  I 
mention  all  this  to  account  for  my  non-return  home  at  midday 
on  this  occasion.  I  often  went  home  by  arrangement  on  rainy  days 
when  there  was  no  fun  going  on  in  the  playground.  But  not  on 
foggy  days,  thank  you! 

For  a  generous  optimism  of  boyhood  in  those  days  recognized,  in 
a  dense  fog,  an  awful  lark.  Boyhood  does  not  recoil  from  inac- 
curacy of  metaphor.  Surely  Destiny  was  amusing  herself  at  my 
expense,  to  make  that  fog  so  awful  a  lark.  I  can  remember  the 
enjoyment  it  afforded  to  all  but  a  delicate  few  of  some  three 
hundred  boys;  the  splendid  consciousness  that  Authority  could  not 
see  what  was  going  on  a  few  paces  off — a  very  few  paces! — the 
sense  of  righteous  triumph  over  abuse  of  power  when  the  master 
of  one  class,  who  was  unpopular,  had  to  throw  up  the  sponge,  or 
choke,  in  an  effort  to  make  himself  heard  by  a  swarm  of  young 


90  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

miscreants  who  had  no  pity  for  asthma,  and  no  interest  in 
Keightley's  History  of  England;  the  final  paeans  of  exultation  as 
they  broke  loose  from  bondage.  For  the  condition  of  release,  that 
they  should  go  quietly,  was  not  honourably  observed,  the  con- 
sciousness of  power  to  disappear  into  Cimmerian  darkness  proving 
too  much  for  the  highest  morality. 

Two  stories  are  told  of  the  effect  that  any  great  surprise  or 
shock  has  on  the  memory  of  what  has  just  preceded  it.  Accord- 
ing to  some,  all  vanishes  and  is  forgotten,  obliterated  by  the  force 
of  the  new  incoming  record.  But  others  tell  another  tale,  that  the 
very  force  of  its  impression  has  as  it  were  involved  the  trifles  of 
the  hour  that  preceded  it,  that  else  might  have  been  forgotten,  and 
left  them  stamped,  indelible,  for  ever. 

This  was  my  experience  of  the  events  of  that  day.  The  choking 
fog,  the  spiritless  gas-jets  struggling  to  assert  themselves,  the  fiction 
that  they  were  burning  in  the  daylight,  the  wild  Saturnalia  of 
boyhood  broken  loose,  hard  to  catch  and  impossible  to  identify 
at  anything  worth  the  name  of  distance;  embarrassed  Authority's 
pretence  of  tolerating,  on  the  score  of  magnanimity,  outrages  it 
was  powerless  to  prevent — all  these  things  and  the  details  of  them, 
that  might  have  belonged  to  a  hundred  other  London  fogs,  are  to 
me  ^till  part  and  parcel  of  this  one  and  none  other.  And  as  I 
think  over  that  day,  they  all  come  back  to  me,  and  I  can  recognize 
even  now  the  share  each  had  in  the  composition  of  that  awful  lark, 
and  picture  to  myself  the  exuberant  reports  of  its  joys  in  the  larger 
half  at  least  of  two  hundred  homes,  whereof  mine  was  not  one. 

In  our  school,  the  boys  were  not  turned  out  when  the  classes 
were  over,  necessarily.  Those  especially  who  lived s near  at  hand 
used  to  remain  on  in  the  playground  to  the  limit  of  toleration  of  the 
ruling  powers.  Boys  who  lived  at  a  distance  departed  promptly, 
in  their  own  interests. 

My  group  of  companions,  a  gang  of  desperadoes  who  were  still 
glowing  with  satisfaction  at  misdeeds  committed  during  the  awful 
lark,  were  the  sons  of  residents  within  an  easy  walk  of  the  school 
— in  Oower  Street,  Bedford  and  Russell  Square,  or  further  east- 
ward in  the  Great  Coram  district.  They  were  not  given  to  going 
straight  back  to  their  families,  preferring  to  see  Life  in  each 
other's  company,  as  much  as  possible;  and  on  the  present  occasion 
several  came  out  of  their  way,  or  beyond  their  destination,  drop- 
ping scattered  units  at  their  respective  homes.  I  arrived  at  mine, 
so  accompanied,  most  immorally  late;  and  my  companions,  all  but 
Cooky  Moss,  passed  on  when  we  reached  the  doorstep.  Cooky  re- 
maining to  gather  what  might  be  of  news,  and  overtake  the  others 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  91 

with  it;  or  break  his  contract  to  do  so,  as  should  chance.  I  was 
immensely  relieved  to  find  that  a  carriage  leaving  the  door  of 
our  house  in  the  fog  was  not  a  doctor's,  but  our  own  peculiar 
brougham  with  its  imperturbable  box-occupant,  looking  forward 
unmoved  to  a  drive  through  the  fog  to  Roehampton,  to  convey  my 
sister  Roberta  and  Miss  Helen  Evans  to  an  amateur  theatrical 
performance;  in  which  my  sister,  who  had  a  dramatic  turn,  was 
to  take  a  Reading  part.  They  were  just  starting  as  I  came  to 
the  door. 

"Hullo!"  said  I,  merely  to  entamer  conversation,  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"  Oh,  it's  the  boy,"  said  Roberta.  "  Mamma's  better.  Go  on, 
Mapleson  .  .  .  I'm  really  afraid  I  am  crushing  you,  dear."  This 
was  to  Miss  Evans,  whose  head  appeared  out  of  a  surging  mass 
of  skirt  and  crinoline,  which  squeezed  up,  from  close  packing,  to 
very  near  the  chins  of  their  wearers.  It  was  as  though  two  balloons 
had  been  forced  inside  the  brougham,  and  some  decorative  heads 
and  hands  had  found  their  way  through  the  silk.  Miss  Evans 
replied  that  she  was  the  less  crushable  of  the  two.  "  Besides,"  said 
she,  "  as  if  7  mattered ! "  She  had  been  grooming  herself  very 
carefully,  I  could  see,  for  all  that. 

"I  say,"  said  I,  "  are  you  sure?"  I  might  just  as  well  have 
waited  until  I  was  in  the  house.  But  a  well-known  twist  of  the 
mind — well  known  to  the  student  of  human  perversity,  I  mean — 
must  needs  make  me  insist  on  the  completion  of  my  information 
by  its  first  communicant.  When  the  crossing-sweeper  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  touches  his  hat  to  the  gentleman  four  doors  up,  and 
says  to  him,  "Postman's  just  been  to  your  house,  Sir,"  ten  to  one 
that  gentleman  says  to  that  crossing-sweeper,  "  Did  you  see  if  he 
had  a  letter  for  me?  " — at  least,  he  does  so  if  he  is  a  weak  character; 
which  one  is,  broadly  speaking.  I  was,  on  this  occasion,  and  my 
sister  was  too  preoccupied  with  her  personal  beauty  to  give  much 
attention  to  a  questioning  boy. 

"  Oh  yes — I'm  sure,"  said  she,  perfunctorily.  Then  she  made 
corrections.  "  At  least,  I'm  not  sure,  I  mean — I  am  sure,  only  I 
hardly  saw  her.  You  saw  her,  Helen!  Miss  Evans  saw  her,  and 
said  she  was  all  right.  .  .  .  Go  on,  Mapleson !  " 

"  Stop  a  minute  while  I  tell  your  brother,"  said  Miss  Evans. 
"  Yes, — your  mamma  was  getting  on  all  right,  Dr.  Hammond  said, 
She'll  be  asleep  now  because  she's  just  had  her  medicine."  She 
added  something  I  did  not  catch,  and  my  sister  responded.  u  Strong 
— did  you  say?  Well,  we  can't  help  that — do  let's  be  off.  .  .  . 
How  do  you  know?  Did  you  pour  it  out  for  her?" 


92  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  No — I  didn't  pour  it  out.  But  I  could  smell  it,  for  all  that." 
Then  my  sister  pulled  up  the  window,  and  Mapleson  was  just 
going  to  make  a  suggestion  to  the  horse,  when  she  dropped  it  again, 
to  say : — "  Tell  them  if  the  fog's  bad  we're  sure  to  stop.  ...  I 
mean,  not  to  expect  us."  To  which  I  replied,  with  brotherly  in- 
difference, "  All  serene !  "  an  expression  at  that  time  recently  intro- 
duced into  the  language,  and  still  occasionally  used  by  old-fashioned 
.people.  She  said,  "Vulgar  boy!"  and  shut  the  window.  They 
vanished  into  the  fog,  and  Cooky,  who  had  heard  tne  colloquy, 
accepted  it  as  containing  a  satisfactory  report,  and  said  good-night, 
leaving  me  on  the  doorstep. 

I  knocked  and  rang  with  confidence,  and  even  some  sense  of 
inflation.  For  had  I  not  been  for  the  doctor  in  the  morning? 
Was  not  that  a  feather  in  my  cap,  apart  from  the  mere  glory  con- 
ferred by  illness  in  the  house,  possibly  dangerous  ?  Think  of  that ! 

Varnish  opened  the  door  and  was  glad.  Her  words  were: — 
"You're  wanted,  Squire!  Come  in  to  where  your  pa's  waiting 
for  you."  She  frequently  addressed  me  as  though  I  rode  to  hounds 
and  had  manorial  rights.  "  Squire  "  was  a  common  form  of  speech 
with  her. 

My  father  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  looking  pleased  also. 
*'  There  you  are,  Master  Jackey,"  said  he.  u  Your  Mamma's  asked 
for  you."  Then  he  said  to  Varnish : — "  She'll  be  awake  by  now. 
•Go  and  see." 

"  Missis's  words  was  Master  Eustace  to  go  up,  the  minute  he 
came,"  said  Varnish.  My  father  did  not  contest  the  point,  but 
said : — "  Well — suppose  you  go  up,  Jackey.  Go  up  quietly,  and  if 
your  mother's  asleep  still,  just  you  go  in  quietly  and  sit  down. 
Keep  quiet  till  I  come." 

"  What  am  I  to  tell  Cooky?"  said  I. 

"Tell  Cooky?  Bless  the  boy,"  said  my  father,  "why  tell  Cook 
anything  ? " 

"  Naw-awt  CooTc!"  said  I,  prolonging  my  first  word  needlessly, 
not  without  implied  contempt  for  Cook,  an  excellent  woman. 
"  Cooky  Moss.  He's  waiting  outside." 

"Oh,  that's  your  game,  is  it?"  said  my  father.  "I  see.  Why 
isn't  he  called  Belshazzar  or  Nebuchadnezzar  ?  Cooky !  " 

"  His  Christian  name's  Monty,"  said  I  unconscious  that  my 
vocabulary  was  open  to  criticism.  I  was  equally  unconscious  of 
•what  there  was  to  be  said  against  my  father's  random  selection  of 
Scripture  names  for  Cooky;  chosen  only,  I  am  sure,  by  the  vaguest 
biblical  association. 

"You    trot    up    to   your    mamma.      Go    quietly,    I'll    talk    to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  93 

Nebuchadnezzar."  I  heard  afterwards  of  the  interview  that  fol- 
lowed, but  the  sequel  of  the  moment  cancelled  other  events  for  the 
time  being. 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  as  to  quietness,  fervently.  I  took  my  shoes 
off  on  the  landing,  and  opened  the  door  of  my  mother's  bedroom 
stealthily.  I  stood  by  the  bed  and  wondered — would  she  wake? 
I  was  not  alarmed,  for  I  only  saw  in  all  this  mere  everyday  ill- 
ness, which  would  of  course  give  way  before  a  certain  number  of 
doctor's  visits.  That  is  how  youth  looks  at  therapeutics :  doses  of 
medicine  are  mere  concurrent  formalities,  that  make  the  belly,, 
bitter,  like  the  Seer's  little  book,  but  are  not  like  honey  in  the 
mouth.  There  the  metaphor  fails,  with  a  vengeance. 

One  can  know  of  a  dense  London  fog  in  a  closed  room,  if  one 
watches  the  fire,  by  the  reluctance  of  its  smoke  to  rise.  Or  by 
listening  for  the  changes  of  the  street  sounds  without.  As  the  fog 
deepens,  and  shakes  hands  with  the  darkness  of  night,  the  wheels 
die  down  and  the  hoofs  of  patient  horses,  accepting  fate,  are  slow 
and  almost  silent.  Mysterious  shouts  appear — such  shouts  as  may 
one  day  tell  us,  on  this  side  Styx,  of  Cimmerians  in  the  gloom  be- 
yond. I  stood  watching  the  fire  and  listening  to  the  shouting, 
thinking  what  a  glorious  time  the  link-boys  must  be  having  out 
there  in  the  dark,  and  waiting  for  my  mother  to  speak  or  move. 

It  seemed  a  long  time,  but  one  cannot  judge  time  by  the  ticking 
of  a  clock  alone.  One  only  knows  that  it  pulsates  at  its  slowest 
to  the  waiting  ear  in  the  silence.  Very  possibly  I  had  not  stood 
there  over  five  minutes  when  I  thought  the  hand  that  lay  on  the 
coverlet,  and  looked  white,  was  moving,  and  that  my  mother  had 
spoken  in  a  whisper.  I  spoke  in  reply. — said,  "  Yes,"  or,  "  What  ?  " 
I  think. 

To  my  ear,  dropped  to  hear  it,  the  whisper  that  came  sounded 
like,  "  Your  father."  My  judgment  was  cool  enough  then,  but  in 
a  moment  uneasiness  came  upon  me.  There  was  something  wrong, 
outside  my  experience.  I  touched  the  colourless  hand,  and  it 
barely  moved. 

I  began  to  speak,  and  my  voice  did  not  encourage  me.  I  felt 
it  was  showing  fear  lest  there  should  be  no  answer.  "  I  say," 
said  I,  using  my  invariable  exordium,  "  I  say,  Mamma.  Do  you 
want  the  Governor?"  I  listened  hard  for  any  sound,  my  heart 
beginning  to  go.  I  think  what  set  it  going  was  chiefly  that  the 
counterpane  felt  cool.  Compared  to  that,  the  hand  was  nothing. 
Hands  are  cold,  if  left  out  of  doors.  Coverlids  are  only  cold  on 
empty  beds. 

Hearing  nothing  in  reply  to  my  question,  I  slipped  from  the 


04 

room  as  noiselessly  as  I  had  come.  My  father  I  knew  would  be 
in  the  small  parlour,  not  in  his  dressing-room.  He  had  been  in 
the  house  unusually  early,  having  been  able  to  get  away  from  the 
office,  as  I  suppose,  on  the  plea  of  illness  at  home.  Subordinates 
cannot  do  this  sort  of  thing;  his  standing  warranted  it.  I  found 
him  writing  a  letter,  and  wished  he  would  look  round,  to  see  that 
something  was  wrong,  rather  than  that  I  should  have  to  broach 
the  subject.  I  found  I  could  not  choose  words  that  would  alarm 
cautiously,  without  saying  too  niuch.  I  do  not  wonder  at  this 
now,  for  I  have  been  at  the  same  loss,  in  after  years,  under  the 
same  circumstances. 

"I  say,  Pap!"  said  I. 

"  Human  Schoolboy,"  said  he,  going  on  writing  deliberately, 

without  looking  round,  "  what — do — you ?  "  He  dropped  speech 

abstractedly  until  he  had  signed  the  letter,  saying  rapidly  as  he 
did  so,  "  His  very  faithfully  Nathaniel  Pascoe,"  and  was  blotting 
it,  when  he  turned  to  me  with  his  mind  on  my  business — at  my 
service  now,  as  it  were — and  said,  concretely: — "  What  do  you  say, 
Human  Schoolboy  ? " 

I  began  hesitatingly,  "  I  think  Mamma's "  and  stopped. 

"  Wanting  to  go  to  sleep  again  ?  "  said  he.    "  Was  she  all  right  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  she  was  all  right,"  said  I;  but.  as  I  suppose,  grudgingly. 
For  my  father  spoke  back  quickly,  "  Quite  all  right? "  and  waited, 
holding  his  half-folded  letter  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  me. 

I  hesitated,  and  at  last  decided  on  "  I  thought  she  said  for  you 
to  come."  It  was  lame  in  structure,  but  it  answered  its  purpose. 

"  Something  wrong  ?  "  said  he.  "  You  go  and  call  Varnish,  old 
man.  Don't  say  anything  to  your  sisters."  He  went  straight  from 
the  room,  and  up  the  stair-flight  two  steps  at  a  time. 

Varnish,  whom  I  had  called  to  below  without  getting  an  answer, 
was  already  by  the  bedside  when  I  arrived  in  the  room,  having  in 
fact  been  close  at  hand  throughout  my  visit.  My  father  said, 
"  Anything  wrong,  Varnish  ? "  and  she  replied,  "  I  daresay  not." 
She  spoke  encouragingly,  a  thing  one  should  never  do. 

But  alarm  was  getting  possession  of  them,  and  it  grew.  "  Get 
her  up — get  her  up !  "  said  my  father.  "  Get  her  to  sit  up !  "  They 
raised  my  mother  into  a  sitting  position  between  them,  and  I  saw 
that  she  spoke,  and  my  father  heard.  For  he  replied : — "  Yes,  love, 
we'll  let  you  go  to  sleep  directly."  Then  he  said: — "Brandy,  I 
think,  at  once!  " 

With  a  boy's  sharpness  I  saw  the  brandy  bottle  on  the  table. 
"  Good  boy !  "  said  he.  "  Pour  some  out — and  about  as  much 
water.  That's  right."  The  brandy  was  not  spilt,  but  neither  hand 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  95 

that  touched  the  glass  was  steady.  We  did  have  an  accident  though, 
I  remember.  A  medicine  bottle  fell  and  broke  on  the  floor,  but 
there  was  almost  nothing  in  it. 

The  efforts  to  get  brandy  down  the  patient's  throat  were — must 
have  been — successful.  For  she  spoke  again  as  soon  as  she  was 
back  on  the  pillow,  so  that  at  least  my  father  heard,  and  answered. 
"  Well,  well  then ! — you  shan't  have  any  more  of  the  detestable 
stuff."  And  her  hearing  must  have  been  active,  for  when  my  father 
said,  not  supposing  she  would  hear,  "  We  must  have  Hammond 
at  once,"  she  moaned  and  said,  "  Oh,  please  no  more  doctors !  "  I 
think  my  father  was  relieved  at  the  slight  asperity  of  her  tone. 
It  meant  revival.  No  danger  there! 

I  was  prompt  to  suggest  that  I  should  fetch  Dr.  Scammony.  But 
my  father  would  have  it  that  I  should  lose  my  way  in  the  fog.  He 
would  go  himself.  But  he  was  over-ruled  by  Varnish's  voice  and 
mine  combined.  Our  opinion  was  that  I  should  be  there  in  half 
the  time.  The  Man,  Mr.  Freeman,  was  a  poor  resource,  even  if 
he  hadn't  already  departed.  He  was  unable  to  pass  a  public  house, 
said  Varnish.  This  was  a  disqualification,  in  London,  for  ambas- 
sadorship. /  ought  to  go,  clearly;  but  my  father  would  look  out 
at  the  front  door  to  see  me  off.  The  fog  might  have  lifted.  He 
saw  me  off,  seeming  to  derive  confidence  from  the  fact  that  a  poor 
woebegone  street-lamp  was  visible,  about  thirty  feet  distant;  aM 
its  energies  taken  up  in  self-assertion ;  not  a  ray  left  to  illuminate 
beyond  its  radius.  Otherwise,  solid  fog! 

A  voice  met  me  in  the  fog,  and  a  greeting.  It  had  detected  me 
under  that  lamp.  "  Stop  a  bit,  little  Buttons,"  it  said.  "  This 
letter's  for  your  Governor.  From  my  old  brother." 

My  school-fellow  Cooky  had  had  time  to  walk  to  his  own  home, 
to  find  this  letter  in  want  of  a  bearer,  and  to  run  back  with  it. 
This  would  fix  our  parting  at  over  twenty  minutes  ago;  it  can- 
not have  been  much  more.  I  considered  the  letter,  looking  at 
it. 

"  Let's  go  back  and  shove  it  in  the  letter-box,"  said  I.  "  I'm 
going  to  the  doctor's.  My  mater's  worse." 

"  I'll  come  too,"  said  Cooky  Moss.  We  went  back  and  dropped  the 
letter  in  the  box;  not  resorting  to  violence — that  was  mere  poetry. 
Then  we  went  off  quickly  through  the  fog;  too  quickly  to  allow  of 
our  usual  practice;  arm-in-arm,  or  arms  round  necks,  as  might 
be.  We  ran,  as  fast  as  was  safe  in  the  almost  impenetrable  dark- 
ness. 

"  There's  an  awful  kick-up  in  the  City,"  said  Cooky.  "  But  you 
don't  understand  these  things,  little  Buttons." 


96  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Don't  I,  rather  ?  "  said  I.  "  Don't  be  an  ass,  Cooky !  I  sup- 
pose that  was  what  your  old  brother's  letter  was  about?" 

"Why  of  course  it  was!  What  did  you  think  it  was  about? 
Pickles?  Grand  Pianos?"  This  was  a  selection,  without  prejudice, 
from  the  whole  available  Universe.  "  My  brother  wouldn't  write 
a  letter  about  anything  else,  unless  it  was  editio  princepses.  That's 
his  hobby.  He  knows  nothing  about  the  insides  of  books,  but 
he  knows  about  editio  princepses." 

"  I  say,  Cooky !    What  was  the  'letter  about  though  ?  " 

"  MacCorquodale,  Boethius,  and  Tripp.  I  don't  know,  but  I 
expect  it  was  that.  They've  burst  up." 

"What's  that?" 

"  That  means  that  you  can  buy  shares  in  MacCorquodale's  for  an 
old  song,  like  so  much  waste  paper." 

Now  I  had  kept  an  eye  on  my  father's  transactions,  so  far  as 
they  were  public  property,  in  proportion  with  the  growth  of  my 
powers  of  understanding  of  the  machinery  of  the  world.  And  I  was 
just  then  acquiring  knowledge  of  the  various  ways  of  possessing 
money,  and  of  the  great  games  of  Beggar-my-neighbour  and  Enrich- 
myself  that  are  being  played  at  the  Royal  Exchange,  the  Bourse, 
Wall  Street,  and  Monte  Carlo.  I  had  come  to  appreciate  my 
father's  modus  operandi,  and  to  regard  him  as  absolutely  infallible. 
So  when  Cooky  Moss  told  me  this  latest  news  from  the  City,  all  the 
impression  it  produced  on  me  was  a  slight  sketch  on  the  tablet  of 
my  mind  of  my  father  buying  up  MacCorquodale  shares  at  a  nomi- 
nal cost;  and  selling  them  again  at  a  fabulous  price  after  a 
Phoenix  resurrection  of  the  extinct  Bank.  I  was  happily  uncon- 
scious of  the  uncomfortable  truth,  that  my  father  was  a  principal 
shareholder  already,  and  had  paid  quite  enough  for  his  shares;  Mr. 
Boethius  had  seen  to  that.  My  belief  to  this  clay  is  that  my  father's 
error  of  judgment,  his  faith  in  this  gentleman's  hat  and  seals  and 
spotless  linen,  was  produced  when  those  shares  in  Mount  Bulimy 
were  not  snapped  up  by  the  latter.  If  I  am  right,  it  was  the  old 
Confidence  Trick  on  a  large  scale,  and  Mr.  Boethius's  sagacity  was 
far-sighted. 

I  thought  so  little  of  Cooky's  'Change  bulletin  that  I  contented 
myself  with  an  inquiry  about  old  songs.  Why  were  they  vili- 
pended ?  "  They're  better  than  new  ones,  anyhow,"  said  he ;  for  this 
young  Ebrew  Jew  was  musical.  "  Palestrina's  better  than  Balfe." 

I  am  recording  all  this  merely  because  it  happened,  and  I  recol- 
lect it,  sharp  and  clear,  word  for  word.  I  remember  everything  on 
that  day — the  dense  Stygian  veil  over  the  soundless  streets,  almost 
too  dense  to  be  a  Lark  any  longer;  the  invisible  traffic  that  came  on 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  97 

a  sudden,  with  a  lurid  glare  of  link-boys,  from  the  Unknown,  to 
be  reabsorbed  by  it  ten  paces  off;  the  man  who  had  just  found 
out  he  wasn't  in  Long  Acre,  and  wanted  to  be  directed  there;  the 
other  who  wanted  to  be  directed  to  Mecklenburg  Square,  just  where 
we  turned  out  of  it.  A  very  red-faced  memory  of  an  old  gentle- 
man comes  out  of  that  fog,  points  out  how  disgraceful  it  is  to  The 
Authorities  that  such  a  state  of  things  should  be  permitted  to  exist, 
and  vanishes  into  it  again. 

Then  comes  my  recollection  of  our  catching  Dr.  Scammony  on 
his  own  doorstep,  trying  for  entry  with  gloves  too  thick  to  wield 
a  latchkey.  He  gave  up  trying  on  hearing  my  message.  He  would 
go  straight  to  my  father's,  without  going  into  his  own  house.  But 
we  two  young  gentlemen  must  take  a  message  to  Oldwinkle  and 
Bousfield  the  Chemist's,  to  the  effect  that  that  firm's  boy  had  never 
taken  the  medicine  to  Mrs.  Fullalove's.  That  was  the  whole — no 
more.  We  were  flattered  by  the  trust  placed  in  us,  felt  our  way 
to  the  Apothecary's,  and  delivered  the  message  conscientiously. 
"  Two  prescriptions  for  Fullalove — liniment  and  ointment.  We 
shall  have  to  get  another  boy, "  was  Mr.  Oldwinkle's  reflection. 
No  doubt,  in  time,  Fullalove  got  her  medicine. 

I  trust,  for  the  sake  of  Human  Nature,  that  the  remainder  of 
our  walk  did  not  show  any  real  indifference  on  my  part  as  to  what 
was  going  on  at  home.  I  hope  it  was  only  my  perfect  faith  in  my 
mother's  recovery — for  had  not  the  doctor  gone  post  haste  to 
succour  her? — that  made  it  possible  for  me  to  enjoy  that  aftermath 
of  the  day's  awful  lark  at  school.  Had  Cooky  not  been  overdue 
at  his  own  house  he  would  have  seen  me  home,  and  left  me  in 
Mecklenburg  Square.  As  it  was  I  saw  him  home,  leaving  him  at 
his  own  door  in  Doughty  Street,  and  through  it  could  hear  his 
mother  and  his  sister  Rachel  denouncing  him  for  being  home 
late  for  dinner.  For  in  some  houses  in  those  early  Victorian  days, 
dinner  was  at  six.  How  strange  that  used  to  seem,  forty  years 
later! 

Cooky's  dinner  was  at  six  and  he  was  very  late  for  it — a  poor 
landmark  in  the  realm  of  Time!  How  late,  is  hard  to  say;  for 
never  a  clock  could  we  see  in  the  darkness,  and  his  watch  had 
stopped,  and  I  did  not  possess  one.  "  Waterbury  "  was  unborn  in 
those  days;  was  primeval  forest,  probably.  It  may  have  been 
two  hours  since  we  left  my  father's  house.  It  may  have  been 
more,  I  have  no  memory  to  determine  time,  closely.  I  know  that 
I  contrived,  Heaven  knows  how.  to  lose  my  way  in  the  fog.  near 
home  as  I  was.  Once  orientation  is  lost,  in  a  dense  fog,  all  sense 
of  locality  goes,  and  panic  takes  its  place.  Then  comes  the  hour 


98  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

of  trial,  and  one  has  to  decide  which  contradictory  advice  he  shall 
accept  and  which  reject.  To  choose  between  two  advisers  absolutely 
without  data,  pointing  opposite  ways,  is  at  least  as  hard  as  to  choose 
for  oneself  without  anything  to  go  upon.  Three  policeman  told 
me  I  was  going  the  wrong  way,  and  yet  I  followed  the  advice  of 
each,  with  a  newborn  faith  in  each,  and  a  newborn  doubt  of  his 
predecessor.  I  believe  I  had  been  at  Charing  Cross  before  I  got 
to  Fountain  Court  in  the  Temple,  where  I  met  my  uncle's  friend, 
Mr.  Skidney.  It  was  his  recognition,  -not  mine. 

I  can  almost  laugh  now  to  recall  the  absurdity  of  his  appear- 
ance; of  which  I  was  conscious,  although  I  did  not  at  the  time 
assign  its  cause  rightly.  I  put  it  down  to  the  fog  that  Mr. 
Skidney  addressed  me  ceremoniously,  calling  me  "  Sir,"  and  taking 
off  his  hat  to  me.  I  fancy  the  image  of  himself  he  had  in  his 
mind,  as  he  did  this,  resembled  Beau  Brummell.  He  held  to  a 
railing  as  he  endeavoured  to  get  the  hat  on  again,  but  seemed  to 
miss  his  head,  and  to  impute  his  failure  to  some  peculiarity  in  the 
hat  itself,  holding  it  at  arm's  length,  and  placing  it  slowly  in 
various  lines  of  sight,  which  he  seemed  unable  to  focus  properly. 
His  speech  was  fairly  clear  as  to  articulation,  but  so  confused  and 
uncertain  in  structure,  that  I  could  only  guess  at  its  bearing  on 
the  hat.  I  think  he  was  dwelling  on  the  roguery  of  the  tradesman 
who  sold  it  to  him,  and  the  deterioration  of  hat-manufacture  in 
modern  times.  Those  made  now  would  not  keep  steady.  Just  look 
at  it !  He  added  that  he  had  bought  it  of  a  dem  Jew. 

I  resented  this,  because  of  Cooky.  Besides,  I  did  not  like  Mr. 
Skidney,  on  his  merits.  He  did  not  improve  his  position  with  me 
by  wringing  my  hand,  as  soon  as  he  had  got  his  hat  insecurely  on, 
and  showing  that  he  knew  me,  calling  me  Wiggy's  nephew. 
"  Wigram  Q.  C."  he  added.  And  it  was  then  I  saw  he  was  drunk, 
from  his  way  of  taking  aim  at  these  initials,  and  missing  the  last. 
For  what  he  said  was  "  Kewsh,"  and  there  an  end. 

I  wanted  to  get  away  from  him,  but  he  would  not  leave  my 
hand.  "  I  say,"  said  I,  as  usual.  "  I  say,  do  let  go  please,  Mr. 
Skidney.  I've  got  to  get  home.  My  mater's  ill.  ...  I  say  .  .  . 
don't!" 

He  would  persist  in  holding  my  hand,  and  I  did  not  like  the  feel 
of  his.  He  then  said  in  one  word,  "  Stop  a  minute;  "  and,  in  about 
fifty,  that  there  was  a  very  respectable  tavern  at  hand  with  a  private 
bar.  where  they  would  always  supply  him  with  a  glass  of  dry 
Sherry  on  credit.  He  said  it  was  "  Gold  Sherry,"  but  I  think 
he  meant  "  Good  Old." 

"  I  hate  sherry!  "  I  cried,  getting  rather  desperate.    "  No — I  say 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  99 

— Mr.  Skidney — really,  I  won't,  please!  I  want  to  get  home.  Do 
leave  go!"  But  Mr.  Skidney  held  on,  slimily;  and,  although  no 
doubt  I  could  have  broken  from  him  by  sheer  violence,  I  felt  that 
would  have  been  unwarranted  and  outrageous.  For  was  he  not 
my  uncle's  friend  ?  Up  to  a  much  greater  age  than  mine,  family 
friendship  of  any  sort  is  a  hall-mark  on  its  object. 

A  circle  of  light,  like  a  vacant  Saint's  nimbus  on  the  lookout 
for  a  tenant,  fluttered  as  a  jack  o'  lantern  is  said  to  do  by  those 
that  have  seen  one,  across  two  sides  of  Fountain  Court.  It  ended 
by  encircling  the  group  composed  of  Mr.  Skidney  and  myself,  and 
then  shrank,  concurrently  with  the  slow  approach  of  a  heavy 
tread. 

The  tread  came  nearer  and  the  nimbus  grew  smaller.  Its  glare 
brought  a  black  wall  of  darkness  close  to  us — containing,  as  I 
supposed,  a  police-sergeant  going  his  rounds — rested  on  me  for  a 
second,  and  seemed  satisfied;  then  pinioned  Mr.  Skidney,  who 
couldn't  dodge  it. 

"  It's  getting  towards  time  that  young  master  was  thinking  about 
bed,"  said  its  promoter,  apparently  to  lead  up  to  conversation, 
there  being  nothing  in  the  position  to  call  for  official  intervention, 
whatever  suspicion  might  be  justified.  "That  your  son?" 

Mr.  Skidney  relinquished  my  hand,  and  I  wasn't  sorry  to  feel 
the  last  of  him.  The  appearance  he  had,  of  a  sort  of  woebegone 
claim  to  dignity  or  gentility  of  some  sort  was  inexpressibly  funny, 
as  he  replied,  rather  more  thickly  than  before: — "  Boyshawlrigh. 
French.  Shun.  Not  famlimanself,  offshire." 

The  officer's  reply  should  trace  the  meaning  of  this  through  the 
ultra-phonetic  spelling  it  amuses  me  to  assign  to  it.  "  If  he's  your 
friend's  son  he'd  best  be  thinking  about  going  to  bed,  Mister." 
He  seemed  to  regard  this  as  his  strong  platform  in  the  conversa- 
tion, and  not  one  to  be  lightly  relinquished.  I  think  though  he  was 
taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  extinction  of  the  Hours  by  the 
fog.  to  billet  me  as  sleepripe  in  that  way.  But  he  was  healthy  and 
strong  and  broad,  and  his  voice  was  big,  with  an  implication  that 
it  could  be  double  the  size  if  called  on,  and  the  steam  from  his 
lungs  in  the  frost-bound  air  brought  thoughts  of  a  horse  to  my 
mind.  His  strong  jaw,  and  cheekbone  too  for  that  matter,  were 
blue,  stamping  him  as  distinctly  a  man  without  a  huge  black  beard 
— one  that  had  been  shaved  off  him  lately,  and  meant  to  be  again. 
His  immensity  and  repose  of  manner  were  so  much  fresh  air  after 
Mr.  Skidney.  But  that  gentleman,  though  he  might  have  been  at 
a  loss  to  say  why,  had  an  inner  conviction  that  he  was  one,  and 
could  patronize  common  men  from  a  social  standpoint. 


100  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

The  Alcohol  Fiend  was  scoring  points  against  Mr.  Skidney. 
He  collapsed  against  the  railings,  giving  the  impression  that  the 
impact  of  the  light  had  just  made  the  difference,  it  having  been 
touch-and-go  with  him.  But  he  could  muster  enough  dignity  to 
wave  the  hand  of  condescension,  saying  benevolently : — "  G'night, 
off sher ! " 

The  officer  illuminated  the  contemptible  sum-total  of  imbecility 
and  whiskey  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  to  it,  "  You've  not  had 
enough  yet,"  meaning  that  a  glass  more  would  bring  it  to  maturity, 
and  qualify  it  for  the  station-house.  Then  he  added,  to  me: — 
"Where  was  it  you  said  you  wanted?"  For  him,  this  fog  had 
changed  the  whole  world  into  home-seekers,  baffled. 

"  Mecklenburg  Square,"  said  I.  "  It's  in  behind  the  Foundling 
Hospital  and  that's  in  Guildford  Street.  And  Guildford  Street's 

out  of  Russell  Square "  1  became  aware  that  I  was  doing 

what  my  father  called  "  teaching  my  granny,"  and  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

"Ah!"  said  the  officer,  sedately.  "I've  been  in  those  parts. 
I'll  put  you  on  your  road.  And  don't  you  speak  to  nobody,  only  one 
of  our  men."  He  accompanied  me  as  far  as  Chancery  Lane,  put 
me  on  it  as  a  road  to  be  relied  on  as  far  as  Holborn,  where  it 
would  cease  to  be  valid,  and  I  should  have  to  use  my  wits.  They 
were  hardly  wanted,  as  some  rain  began  to  sneak  down  from 
Heaven;  and  the  fog's  heart  was  broken  by  the  time  I  had  a  big 
crossing  to  negotiate. 

Why  do  I  tell  so  much  the  story  has  no  need  of?  Why  do  I 
omit  what  stories  need? — as,  for  instance,  what  my  father  was 
like.  I  am  almost  sure  I  have  said  nothing  of  it.  Clearly  enough, 
because  what  I  write  is  not  needed  itself,  as  a  story.  It  is  a  record 
written  for  its  writer's  sake  and  no  sake  else.  Do  I,  the  only 
person  concerned,  not  know  well  enough  what  my  father  was 
like?  Or  rather,  is  he  not  an  identity,  more  than  an  image?  But 
gleams  of  a  moment  in  the  past  are  images,  and  I  have  had  the 
image  of  that  policeman  in  my  mind  for  sixty  odd  years,  and  it  is 
still  a  fresh  and  noble  one;  almost  cruel  in  its  contrast  to  that 
of  the  wretched  drunkard,  which  is  still  vivid  too,  trying  to  manage 
without  the  railings,  but  not  able  to  do  that,  and  wave  a  dignified 
farewell  at  the  same  time.  I  am  glad  I  did  not  accept  that  glass 
of  good  old  sherry,  at  that  respectable  tavern.  Whether  my  friend 
with  the  bull's-eye  went  back  and  found  Mr.  Skidney  mellowed,  and 
qualified  for  lock  and  key.  I  cannot  say.  We  parted  the  best  of 
friends  and  never  met  again.  I  went  as  quick  as  my  legs  could 
carry  me  to  Mecklenburg  Square. 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  101 

The  present  is  at  odds  with  the  past,  either  denouncing  the  other 
as  a  dream,  when  I  reflect  that  I,  the  old  man  that  passes  day  after 
day,  night  after  night  in  the  Workhouse  Infirmary,  longing  that 
each  doctor's  visit  may  bring  some  clear  hint  of  an  end  of  it  all 
approaching,  now  within  a  very  measurable  distance,  I — even  I — 
strange  as  it  is  to  tell,  am  that  boy  that  stood  scared  and  wonder- 
ing, near  sixty  years  ago,  at  the  door  he  had  left  two  hours  before; 
scared  at  the  sound  of  the  voices  within;  wondering  why  none 
should  hear  his  knock,  repeated  twice,  thrice ;  why  footsteps  should 
pass  down  and  up,  in  seeming  panic,  so  close  that  he  could  have 
made  the  passers  hear  by  calling  aloud,  but  stood  irresolute  to  do 
so.  I  am  that  boy,  and  the  growing  panic  of  that  moment  is  on  me 
still,  and  the  gloom. 


CHAPTEK  XI 
THE  STORY 

ON  that  foggy  morning  of  the  Old  Man's  Youth,  Miss  Evans 
the  governess  sat  by  herself  in  the  schoolroom  in  Mecklenburg 
Square.  Her  duties  were  now  somewhat  of  a  perfunctory  order  as 
regarded  her  two  elder  pupils,  Ellen  and  Roberta,  Gracey  the 
younger  one  was  still  under  her  tutelage;  but  Mrs.  Pascoe's  attack 
of  illness  that  morning  had  disturbed  the  ordinary  routine  of  the 
household,  and  Miss  Evans  sat  idly  warming  her  feet  at  the  fire 
with  her  thoughts  travelling  back  to  the  days  when  she  had  been  a 
small  girl  at  a  large  fashionable  school  kept  by  a  distant  relative, 
who  had  undertaken  to  give  her  her  education  and  train  her  for  a 
career  as  a  governess,  free  of  charge,  her  parents  having  both  died 
leaving  her  and  her  two  sisters  practically  penniless,  and  dependent 
on  the  charity  of  not  very  near  or  very  wealthy  relations. 

At  that  time  Miss  Caecilia  Wigram  one  of  the  older  pupils  at  the 
school  had  been  sent  there  in  order  that  she  might  receive  a  finish 
to  her  education  prior  to  her  being  launched  into  society,  she  was 
therefore  some  six  or  seven  years  older  than  the  beautiful  little 
Helen,  who,  in  spite  of  her  fascinating  appearance,  was  snubbed 
and  patronized  by  the  big  daughters  of  prosperous  homes,  more 
especially  by  Csecilia  Wigram  who  with  the  unthinking  cruelty  of 
youth  roused  a  fierceness  of  resentment  in  the  breast  of  the  little 
orphan,  that  she  never  for  one  moment  suspected  or  intended. 

Time  wore  on,  the  days  of  childish  things  passed,  and  Csecilia 
Wigram  became  Mrs.  Pascoe,  and  in  due  course  the  mother  of 
daughters  who  in  their  turn  required  tuition,  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  be- 
thought herself  of  the  little  girl  who  had  been  training  for  a 
governess  in  her  own  schooldays,  looked  her  up  and  engaged  her, 
all  unconscious  that  the  flavour  of  benevolence  with  which  she 
coloured  the  transaction,  was  fanning  the  flames  of  an  unreasoning 
bitterness  and  resentment  hidden  deep  down  under  Helen  Evans' 
placid  exterior. 

The  fog  deepened,  and  Miss  Evans  lit  the  gas.  As  she  did  so 
she  caught  sight  of  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror  over  the 

102 


THE  STORY  103 

mantelpiece.  Yes,  she  was  lovely!  there  was  no  mistake  about 
that,  yet  of  what  avail  were  all  those  good  looks  if  she  were  never 
to  rise  above  this  wretched  down-trodden  existence!  It  was 
maddening! 

Tonight  she  was  going  with  Roberta  the  second  girl  with  whom 
she  had  struck  up  a  great  friendship,  to  some  private  theatricals. 
Roberta  was  very  fond  of  acting  and  Miss  Evans  was  to  chaperon 
her  and  help  with  the  dressing  up.  Yes,  always  in  the  background ! 
Never  a  real  life  of  her  own  with  the  admiration  she  felt  to  be 
her  due.  She  was  now  turned  thirty  and  the  precious  years  were 
slipping  by !  and  envy,  hatred,  malice,  desperation,  fought  together 
in  her  dark  small  mind  as  the  yellow  fog  grew  denser  and  denser 
on  that  dreary  December  morning.  The  doctor  had  been  and  had 
prescribed  for  Mrs.  Pascoe.  The  symptoms,  he  said,  though  un- 
doubtedly serious,  were  not  alarming.  She  must  be  kept  very 
quiet  and  he  had  ordered  a  soothing  draught  to  be  taken  should 
there  be  any  recurrence  of  the  pain.  It  was  mostly  nervous,  and 
the  nerves  must  be  quieted  to  avoid  any  undue  strain  on  the 
heart. 

The  day  wore  on  and  Roberta  proceeded  to  don  her  fancy  dress 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Varnish,  who  suggested  that  before 
starting  she  should  show  herself  to  her  "  mar "  who  was  awake 
now  and  seemed  to  be  much  better,  so  Varnish  thought. 

Accordingly  before  setting  off  Roberta  went  to  display  her 
finery  to  her  mother.  "  Yes,  I  am  certainly  better,"  said  Mrs. 
Pascoe  in  answer  to  her  daughter's  inquiries.  "  That  dress  is  very 
pretty,"  she  continued,  "  but  is  it  safe  for  you  to  go  all  the  way 
to  Roehampton  in  a  fog  like  this?"  My  dear,  just  think  if  you 
get  lost !  They  can  hardly  expect  you  such  a  dreadful  night." 

"  The  fog  is  lifting,  Mamma,  and  the  carriage  is  there,  I  am  sure 
it~will  be  all  right,"  said  Roberta  in  a  great  hurry  to  be  off. 

"  It  strikes  me  as  still  very  thick  in  the  room,"  said  Mrs.  Pascoe, 
uneasily.  "  Well,  I  must  just  speak  to  Miss  Evans  for  a  moment 
before  you  start ;  tell  her  to  look  in  on  her  way  down." 

Roberta  kissed  her  mother  and  hurried  off,  calling  to  Miss 
Evans  that  her  mother  wished  to  speak  to  her  but  not  to  stop  long  as 
the  carriage  was  waiting. 

Mrs.  Pascoe  lay  in  bed  propped  up  by  pillows,  a  shaded  lamp  shed 
a  dim  subdued  light  through  the  room.  The  fire  flickered  dully  in 
the  grate,  and  on  the  table  at  a  little  distance  from  the  bedside 
stood  a  glass  and  a  ribbed  blue  medicine  bottle  labelled  "  Poison." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Pascoe,  as  the  governess 
came  into  the  room,  "  to  say  that  if  you  find  you  are  driving  into 


104  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

a  dense  wall  of  fog,  you  must  exercise  your  authority  and  insist 
upon  turning  back.  Roberta  is  always  so  headstrong  about  any- 
thing she  has  set  her  mind  on,  but  remember  my  express  orders 
are  that  you,  are  not  to  give  way  to  her,  you  are  to  turn  back." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  Mrs.  Pascoe,"  replied  Miss  Evans,  sullenly, 
"  but  Roberta  is  bent  on  going,  and  after  all  the  fog  has  lifted  con- 
siderably." 

il  Well,  I  am  not  up  to  arguing  about  it,"  says  Mrs.  Pascoe,  peev- 
ishly. "  I  look  to  you  to  see  that  my  orders  are  obeyed.  Is  Varnish 
there?" 

"No;  shall  I  call  her?" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  calling  Varnish,  you  can  just  give  me 
my  medicine  before  you  go;  I  had  better  take  it  now  as  all  this 
has  made  my  heart  flutter." 

«  All  what  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  why  cannot  I  ever  be  obeyed  without  a  discussion,  it 
is  so  fatal  to  me." 

"No  one  is  discussing  anything.  Is  this  the  medicine?"  And 
Miss  Evans  held  up  the  bottle  to  the  lamp. 

"  Yes,  that  blue  bottle,  the  dose  is  marked  on  it." 

Miss  Evans  took  the  glass  in  one  hand,  and  the  bottle  in  the 
other,  but  the  hand  that  held  the  bottle  shook  and  an  ugly  gleam 
flashed  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  the  right  dose  ? "  inquires  the  invalid  as 
Miss  Evans  hands  her  the  glass. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not  given  you  enough,"  and  Miss  Evans'  voice 
sounds  strange.  "  I  went  by  the  markings  on  the  bottle  only,  this 
lamp  gives  such  a  bad  light." 

Mrs.  Pascoe  swallowed  the  medicine,  remarking : — "  I  am  sure 
there  was  enough,  it  seemed  to  me  a  bigger  dose  than  last  time." 

"I  followed  the  directions  on  the  bottle,  Mrs.  Pascoe;  is  there 
anything  more  I  can  do  for  you  before  I  go  ? " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,  I  shall  rest  now." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Miss  Evans.  "  I  hope  you  will  sleep  well," 
and  she  left  the  room  to  rejoin  Roberta. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  STORY 

THE  fog  did  lift,  and  Roberta  and  Miss  Evans  reached  their 
destination  without  any  adventures  by  the  way.  The  theatricals 
were  voted  a  great  success  by  the  actors  and  actresses  who  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  their  own  performance.  The  audience  was  a  small 
one  owing  to  the  bad  weather,  but  they  endured  their  martyrdom 
with  amiable  resignation,  and  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell. 

Meanwhile  tragedy  grim  and  fateful,  was  being  enacted  in 
Mecklenburg  Square.  Dr.  Hammond  and  his  assistant,  hastily 
summoned  to  Mrs.  Pascoe's  bedside,  were  fighting  the  King  of 
Terrors  with  all  the  means  in  their  power.  "  But  who  gave  her 
the  dose?"  inquired  the  doctor.  Varnish  had  left  her  to  help 
Roberta  to  dress  for  the  private  theatricals,  she  was  much  better 
then,  and  Roberta  had  paid  her  mother  a  visit  before  leaving  for 
Roehampton.  The  medicine  was  not  due  to  be  given  for  another 
hour  or  more,  and  then  only  in  the  event  of  a  recurrence  of  the 
pain.  "  Mrs.  Pascoe  had  a  hand-bell  placed  well  within  her  reach 
to  ring  for  me  if  she  wanted  anything,"  said  the  distracted  Varnish. 
"  I  was  only  in  the  room  the  other  side  of  the  passage;  I  must  have 
heard  her  had  she  rung." 

In  the  sudden  alarm  of  finding  his  wife  in  a  comatose  condi- 
tion when  summoned  by  Eustace  John,  Mr.  Pascoe  had  over- 
turned the  small  invalid  table  near  the  bed  and  the  medicine  bottle 
which  stood  on  it  was  broken  in  falling  on  the  floor,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  say  how  much  she  had  taken,  but  as  no  smell  or  trace 
of  laudanum  could  be  found  on  the  carpet  presumably  the  bottle 
contained  none,  and  the  patient  must  have  emptied  the  whole 
contents  of  the  bottle  into  the  glass  under  the  impression  it  was 
one  dose.  She  was  all  but  past  speech  when  her  son  went  in  to 
see  her,  on  his  return  from  school,  and  since  the  arrival  of  the 
doctors  the  most  violent  attempts  at  rousing  her,  combined  with 
the  use  of  the  stomach  pump,  had  only  succeeded  in  eliciting  a  faint 
whispered  protest.  "  Oh,  this  is  cruel,  let  me  be,  let  me  be.  I  want 
to  sleep." 

Far  on  into  the  night  they  made  her  pace  the  room.  They  banged 
the  dinner-gong  in  her  ears.  They  beat  her  across  the  shoulders, 

105 


106  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

poured  the  strongest  black  coffee  down  her  throat,  but  all  to  no 
avail.  Long  before  the  first  faint  streak  of  the  chilly  winter  dawn 
appeared  over  the  housetops,  the  Thing  that  had  been  Caecilia 
Pascoe  to  the  world  in  which  she  lived  lay  cold  and  lifeless  on  the 
bed,  the  baffled  doctors  had  left  the  house,  and  the  bereaved  family 
had  retired  to  get  such  rest  as  physical  exhaustion  can  sometimes 
bring  to  a  barely  realized  grief  and  wornout  nerves. 

Soon  after  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Roberta  and  Miss  Evans 
drove  up  to  the  silent  house  and  let  themselves  in  with  the  latch- 
key conceded  to  them  for  the  occasion.  The  hall  lamp  had  been 
left  burning  and  bedroom  candles  were  placed  ready  for  them  on 
the  hall  table;  everything  looked  as  usual,  and  they  came  in  so 
noiselessly  that  no  member  of  that  tired  out  overwrought  house- 
hold heard  them  arrive.  Miss  Evans  seemed  specially  anxious  to 
steal  upstairs  as  quietly  as  possible.  As  they  passed  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Pascoe's  room  she  paused  for  a  second  to  listen.  No  sound 
was  audible.  All  was  still  as  death,  and  Roberta  who  was  going 
on  in  front  turned  round  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  scared 
white  face  of  her  friend  as  she  hurried  on  after  her  to  their  joint 
sleeping  apartment  on  the  floor  above. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Helen  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a 
ghost." 

"  Nothing's  the  matter.  I  am  very  tired ;  we  are  so  late,"  replied 
Miss  Evans,  "  do  make  haste  and  get  to  bed." 

"  I  suppose  Mamma  is  a  lot  better,"  remarked  Roberta,  "  or 
some  one  would  have  been  sitting  up  with  her,  and  there  was  no 
light  under  the  door;  I  looked  specially  to  see." 

"  Of  course  she's  better,"  says  Miss  Evans,  irritably.  "  Why, 
she  seemed  fairly  well  yesterday  evening,  didn't  you  say?" 

"  Well,  but  you  saw  her  last,  Helen ;  didn't  you  think  she  was 
going  on  all  right?" 

"  How  can  you  say  I  saw  her,"  snapped  Miss  Evans.  "  Why,  I 
only  just  put  my  head  in  at  the  door,  and  that  lamp  gives  no  light." 

"  Oh  dear,  how  cross  you  are,"  yawned  Roberta,  "  do  get  to  bed 
and  put  the  light  out,  I  can  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open." 

Roberta  tumbled  into  bed  and  almost  before  her  head  touched  the 
pillow  she  had  sunk  into  the  deep  sound  sleep  of  tired  un- 
troubled youth. 

Not  so  Miss  Evans;  she  could  not  rest,  her  ears  were  ever  on 
the  alert  to  detect  the  slightest  sound.  At  one  time  she  fancied 
she  heard  footsteps  in  the  room  below.  Some  one  seemed  to  be 
pacing  up  and  down,  then,  what  was  that?  a  moan,  then  silence. 


THE  STORY  107 

Of  course  everything  was  all  right!  She  must  forget  that  inci- 
dent of  the  medicine!  think  of  it  as  a  dream,  and  in  course  of 
time  it  would  become  one.  In  any  case  if  the  dose  had  done  its 
worst  there  was  no  proof  against  her!  There  could  be  none! 
She  was  safe!  quite  safe!  She  had  better  get  to  sleep.  But  she 
did  not  blow  the  light  out,  she  left  it  to  flicker  and  die  down,  and 
when  the  darkness  came  she  lay  and  trembled  longing  for  the  dawn, 
but  she  could  not  sleep. 

A  cart  came  slowly  rumbling  through  the  Square.  Then  more 
sound  of  wheels,  then  she  heard  the  milk  man  deposit  his  can  at 
the  door,  but  still  no  one  stirred  in  the  house!  Yet  it  must  be 
getting  late !  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Miss  Evans  got  out  of  bed 
and  cautiously  opened  the  shutters  of  the  window  on  her  side  of 
the  room  and  drew  up  the  blind.  Roberta  was  still  sound  asleep, 
but  it  was  broad  daylight  now,  and  she  saw  the  postman  going  his 
round  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Square,  a  few  chilly  looking 
pedestrians  were  hurrying  along  as  if  they  feared  they  were  late 
for  business,  but  still  not  a  sound  in  the  house!  At  last  a  slight 
tap  came  at  the  door.  The  hot  water,  thought  Miss  Evans  as  she 
called  "  Come  in."  But  it  was  not  the  hot  water,  it  was  Varnish 
who  opened  the  door  and  closing  it  gently  behind  her,  walked 
straight  up  to  the  window  and  drew  down  the  blind,  ignoring  Miss 
Evans'  alarmed  inquiry  as  to  the  reason  of  this  unusual  pro- 
ceeding. Roberta  woke  with  a  start,  and  Varnish  who  had  crossed 
the  room  to  her  bedside,  leant  over  her  with  her  white  drawn  face. 

"Varnish,  what  is  it?  What  has  happened?  Oh,  why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that?" 

"  It's  your  mar,  my  poor  dear  lamb !  Your  dear  mar !  She's 
gone!" 

And  before  many  moments  had  passed,  Roberta  was  sobbing 
her  heart  out  in  her  old  nurse's  arms,  and  her  half  stunned  and 
dazed  youth  had  made  acquaintance  with  grief  and  learnt  the 
bitterness  of  parting. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  STORY 

OF  the  days  that  followed,  the  days  of  drawn  blinds  and  newly 
ordered  mourning  garments,  of  crape  and  misery,  of  hushed  voices 
and  tearful  faces,  there  is  little  to  telL 

Mrs.  Pascoe  had  died  of  an  overdose  of  laudanum ;  she  had  taken 
it  herself,  there  was  no  other  possible  explanation.  Instead  of 
ringing  for  Varnish  or  one  of  the  servants  she  had  poured  out  the 
fateful  dose  with  her  own  hands  mistaking  the  quantity.  Her 
brothers,  however,  never  very  amiably  disposed  to  their  brother-in- 
law,  openly  accused  him  of  neglecting  their  sister  and  added  to  the 
general  unhappiness  by  refusing"  to  attend  the  funeral. 

Poor  Mr.  Pascoe  utterly  worn  out  and  miserable  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  library  on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  the  last  rites 
had  been  performed  and  finis  written  large  over  his  twenty  years 
of  married  life.  His  thoughts  travelled  back  to  the  day  when  lie 
had  brought  his  happy  bride  of  nineteen  home  to  this  very  house. 
How  well  he  remembered  it  all  now !  All  she  said  and  did.  How 
delighted  she  had  been  with  the  house  and  its  possibilities,  and 
how  the  transformed  schoolgirl  had  played  at  being  the  dignified 
married  woman,  and  oh,  how  happy  they  were  together.  Then  how 
the  years  had  passed  and  the  children  come,  and  how  the  glamour 
of  those  early  days  had  gradually  faded  into  prosaic  everyday  life, 
with  a  growing  complaint  of  constant  ill-health  on  his  wife's  part 
that  he  reproached  himself  now  with  never  having  taken  -seriously 
enough.  Perhaps  had  he  been  more  gentle  and  patient  with  Caecilia 
who  knows  but  that  all  this  terrible  tragedy  might  never  have  hap- 
pened !  Yes,  his  mind  was  quite  made  up,  he  would  write  that  letter 
at  once!  He  would  do  it  now,  now  that  it  was  all  too  late!  lie 
would  follow  out  her  last  and  often  reiterated  wish,  and  send  in  his 
resignation  to  Somerset  House!  By  doing  so  he  would  forfeit  his 
right  to  a  pension  in  the  future,  and  lose  his  employment  in  the 
present.  But  had  he  any  real  need  of  either?  All  he  touched  had 
turned  to  money,  and  he  was  a  rich  man !  As  for  employing  his 
time  there  would,  could  be,  no  difficulty  about  that!  so  without  giv- 
ing it  another  moment's  consideration,  Mr.  Pascoe  sat  down  at  his 
writing  table  and  wrote  the  letter  that  was  to  sever  his  connec- 
tion with  Somerset  House  for  ever. 

108 


THE  STORY  109 

An  hour  or  so  later  his  old  friend  Mr.  Stowe  looking  in  to  inquire 
how  it  fared  with  him,  found  him  sitting  sadly  before  the  fire  with 
his  schoolboy  son  on  his  knee,  and  was  duly  informed  of  the 
decisive  step  he  had  just  taken. 

"  You  see  it  was  her  last  wish,  Stowe,  and  it  is  some  sort  of  con- 
solation to  me  to  carry  it  out." 

His  friend  stared  at  him  as  if  he  thought  he  must  have  taken 
leave  of  his  senses. 

"  Yes !  of  course  I  quite  understand  your  feeling,  but  under  the 
circumstances,  Pascoe,  it  would  be  madness!  Sheer  madness  to 
throw  up  your  post !  Think  of  your  family,  you  have  no  right  to 
run  such  a  risk,  at  least  wait  and  see." 

"What  circumstances  and  why  should  I  wait?  What  do  you 
mean?  I  can't  see  where  the  madness  comes  in?"  And  Mr. 
Pascoe  looked  completely  bewildered. 

"  Why,  how  can  you  risk  giving  up  a  salaried  employment  now, 
Pascoe?  You  can't  tell  yet  awhile  if  anything  at  all  will  be  saved 
out  of  the  smash.  You  don't  know  yet  how  you  may  be  situated !  " 

"But  what  smash?"  inquired  Mr.  Pascoe.     "I  know  of  none." 

"Why,  the  big  smash  in  the  City,  of  course.  MacCorquodale's 
Bank,  your  bank  has  burst  up,  is  suspended,  the  money  is  gone! 
Why,  the  papers  are  full  of  it !  " 

"  I  have  not  looked  at  a  paper  since  all  this  trouble,"  said  Mr. 
Pascoe,  glancing  at  the  pile  of  unopened  Times  that  had  accumu- 
lated on  his  table.  "  But  Moss  would  never  have  left  me  to  hear 
of  it  first  from  the  newspaper,  he  would  have  been  certain  to  write. 
Absolutely  certain !  " 

Then  it  was  that  Eustace  John  raising  his  head  suddenly  from 
his  father's  shoulder  where  he  had  been  resting  half  asleep,  worn 
out  by  the  emotions  of  the  long  trying  day,  remembered  about  the 
letter  that  Cooky  had  brought  for  his  father  the  night  he  went 
for  the  doctor.  He,  Cooky,  had  said  there  was  a  smash  in  the  City 
and  that  that  letter  was  from  his  big  brother  to  tell  about  it,  and 
they  had  put  it  in  the  letter  box  and  rung  the  bell  without  waiting  for 
any  one  to  come.  On  his  return  he  had  asked  about  it,  and  Gracey 
had  told  him  that  she  had  seen  the  letter  in  the  box  with  "  Im- 
mediate" on  it  and  had  taken  it  straight  up  to  the  library,  and 
not  finding  her  father  there  had  laid  it  on  his  writing  table  in  the 
most  conspicuous  place  she  could  think  of,  after  which  all  recol- 
lection of  the  letter  had  been  banished  from  both  their  minds  by 
that  night  of  misery  and  death.  There  it  lay  exactly  where  she 
had  placed  it,  but  hidden  by  the  stack  of  un-read  newspapers  that 
an  unobservant  servant  had  heaped  on  the  top  of  it. 


110  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Mr.  Pascoe  read  the  letter  now,  and  from  it  he  learnt  of  the 
great  crash  in  the  City  that  would  in  all  probability  rob  .him  of  the 
whole  of  the  fortune  the.  Heliconides  had  brought  him,  and  make  it 
imperative  that  no  such  step  as  retiring  from  Somerset  House 
should  be  taken.  His  future  would  have  to  be  remodelled,  but  on 
far  different  lines  to  those  he  had  been  contemplating  an  hour 
ago.  He  ought  to  remain  in  harness,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
•what!  All  the  same  he  decided  to  send  the  letter  he  had  written 
containing  his  resignation,  and  strange  to  say  found  a  certain 
relief  in  contemplating  the  changed  aspect  and  uncertainty  of  his 
monetary  outlook  in  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MY  father  had  been  in  the  house  half-an-hour  when  I  arrived, 
and  the  fact  that  he  was  looking  just  like  himself  had  impressed 
Varnish,  who  came  to  meet  me  at  the  door,  very  favourably.  She 
evidently  thought  that  the  identity  of  one  who  goes  to  the  City 
and  meets  news  of  his  insolvency  might  suffer  in  the  process.  He 
had  not  said  anything,  but  it  was  known  when  he  went  away  in  the 
morning  that  he  was  going  first  to  the  City,  and  later  to  Somer- 
set House  to  resume  his  ordinary  routine  work.  I  found  that  my 
sisters  shared  Varnish's  impressions,  and  in  fact  that  a  sort  of 
provisional  optimism  prevailed  in  the  household — a  kind  of  jury- 
mast  to  the  ship  of  Hope,  to  keep  her  under  way  till  she  could  sight 
port,  or  meet  a  tug-boat.  There  must  have  been  a  thread  of  mis- 
giving in  the  sailcloth,  for  I  caught  a  hysterical  undertone  in  my 
sisters'  hopefulness,  when  I  came  to  hear  their  confirmations  of 
Varnish. 

I  considered  that,  as  my  father  had  taken  me  so  far  into  his 
confidence  the  evening  before,  I  might  presume  to  apply  to  him  for 
first-hand  information.  I  had  my  doubts  about  my  claims  to  it, 
but  no  harm  could  come  of  asking. 

I  knocked  at  his  door,  and  in  answer  to,  "Who's  that?"  replied, 
"It's  me."  To  which  the  answer  was: — "Then  me  had  better 
come  in,  and  not  hold  the  door  open.  Come  in,  Scaramouch ! " 
By  the  time  I  was  in  I  had  forgotten  the  form  in  which  I  had 
arranged  my  catechism,  and  it  worked  out  crudely  as: — "I  say, 
Pater,  what  was  up? "  I  daresay  this  was  really  more  to  the  point. 

Anyway,  information  was  forthcoming.  My  father  repeated, 
"What  was  up!  What  next?"  as  much  as  to  say,  "  This  it  is  to 
have  a  promising  son,  and  this  is  modern  education."  But  he 
continued : — "  I  suppose  we  mean — what  was  up  in  the  City?  Well, 
what  was  not  up  was  shares  in  a  certain  Bank,  which  has  burst 
up  nevertheless.  So  I  suppose  the  Bank  itself  is  up  though  the 
shares  are  down." 

I  believe  I  was  impressed,  although  I  showed  it  in  a  strange  way, 
saying  merely.  "  Hookey ! "  after  a  moment  of  appalled  silence. 
My  father  said,  "And  then  one's  offspring  says  'Hookey!'  as  one 
compelled  to  accept  a  new  and  outlandish  expression  under  protest. 

Ill 


112  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Well."  ho  added,  a  serious  sadness  showing  itself  through  his  half- 
joking  tone,  "  Poverty  is  an  evil — but  we  must  hope.  At  any  rate 
we  shall  always  have  a  roof  over  our  heads.  And  " — still  more  sadly 
— "  your  mamma  will  know  nothing  about  it."  It  was  this  speech 
of  my  father  that  made  me  first  alive  to  the  gravity  of  the  position. 
I  doubt,  however,  if  at  that  time  1  ever  grasped  it  fully. 

These  were  the  days  of  the  unprotected  shareholder,  before  the 
passing  of  Limited  Liability  into, law.  It  is  hard  now,  almost,  to 
believe  that  at  one  time  the  whole  brunt  of  the  collapse  of  a 
joint-stock  undertaking  might  fall  upon  a  solitary  individual;  in- 
somuch that  every  shareholder  made  himself  liable  for  the  whole 
of  its  debts,  if  his  fellows  all  proved  insolvent  on  winding  up. 
I  believe  I  am  not  overstating  the  case  in  theory,  though  I  do  not 
know  whether  such  a  thing  ever  actually  happened  in  practice  as 
the  liquidation  of  a  bankruptcy  out  of  the  pockets  of  one  share- 
holder, all  the  others  making  their  escape  through  the  Bankruptcy 
Court.  1  can  remember  vaguely  how  a  change  in  the  law  some 
years  later  was  followed  by  a  storm  of  reckless  speculation  as 
soon  as  investors  knew  that  their  liability  went  no  further  than 
their  paid-up  contributions.  I  never  mastered  the  whole  sub- 
ject, and  it  may  be  I  am  now  writing  this  to  gauge  my  under- 
standing of  it.  Indeed,  what  other  object  can  I  have?  I  do,  how- 
ever, know  this  much,  that  the  insolvency  of  MacCorquodale, 
Boethius,  and  Tripp  left  my  father,  who  had  bought  up  most  of  the 
shares,  with  practically  nothing  but  my  mother's  settlement  money 
to  live  upon,  except  of  course  his  own  earnings  after  the  affair 
was  wound  up.  1  cannot  even  feel  sure  that  his  year's  salary,  much 
of  which  was  actually  earned  after  the  Bank  suspended  payment, 
was  not  impounded  for  the  benefit  of  the  depositors.  To  the  best 
of  my  recollection  it  came  out  that  Mr.  Boethius  had  quietly  parted 
with  all  his  own  holding — was  in  fact  no  longer  a  shareholder, 
though  he  continued  in  the  position  of  a  salaried  manager,  at  a 
lucrative  salary.  His  great  business  abilities  could  not  be  dis- 
pensed with.  Perhaps  he  took  alarm  at  his  partner,  Mr.  Tripp's, 
reckless  gambling  on  the  turf,  and  indeed  at  Monte  Carlo  and 
elsewhere.  Anyhow,  he  continued  a  monument  of  Solvency.  Mr. 
Tripp  disappeared,  I  believe,  having  provided  a  resource  for  his 
family  in  the  shape  of  diamonds  for  his  wife,  on  which  the  hungry 
eyes  of  defrauded  creditors  were  fixed  in  vain.  But  I  am  really  not 
able — so  this  attempt  shows  me — to  fill  out  the  particulars  of  this 
great  failure.  1  only  know  how  ruinous  its  effects  were,  and  how 
my  father's  opulence  was  changed  by  it  to  what  was  relatively 
poverty. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  113 

I  think  the  milliner's  bill  for  all  that  mourning,  seeking  a  cash 
settlement  on  delivery,  was  the  first  awakening  we — and  perhaps 
my  father  himself — had  to  the  full  seriousness  of  the  position.  I 
can  well  remember  my  sister  Ellen  applying  to  him  for  the 
amount,  and  his  saying,  "Oh — yes — how  much  is  it?"  and  auto- 
matically, from  old  habit,  taking  out  his  usual  MacCorquodale 
cheque-book,  and  almost  beginning  to  write  in  it.  Then  of  his 
abruptly  stopping  with  the  exclamation: — "No  use  now  I — No  use 
at  alll"  7  understand,  but  Ellen,  who  was  not  very  clever,  said, 
"Why,  papa  dear,  have  you  no  money  at  the  Bank?"  before  she 
saw  what  was  wrong.  Hy  father  leaned  his  head  a  moment  on 
his  hand;  then  said,  with  more  heartbreak  than  I  had  heard  in 
his  voice  before : — "  I  shall  have  to  use  your  mamma's  book."  She 
had  had  a  separate  account  with  another  bank,  but  he  had  signed 
for  her  by  arrangement  for  some  time  past,  as  a  matter  of  con- 
venience. This  was  probably  the  first  time  he  had  drawn  on  it 
for  a  debt  properly  his  own.  I  am  far  from  certain  that  he  had,  as 
it  was,  any  legal  right  to  do  so.  But  I  can  only  give  the  facts  as  I 
recollect  them.  1  cannot  vouch  for  anything  but  crude  memories, 
fifty  years  old. 

I  fancy  he  would  have  had  to  borrow  for  current  expenses  had  it 
not  been  for  this  fund,  which  would  not  have  been  available  but 
for  the  double  signature.  Even  as  it  was,  I  have  a  recollection  that 
my  uncles,  acting  as  my  mother's  trustees  in  the  course  of  what 
my  father  called  the  seiilementeering  which  followed,  endearoured 
to  compel  him  to  pay  back  this  amount  into  the  settlement  fund. 
My  father  replied  to  them,  perfectly  correctly  as  I  believe,  that  my 
mother's  pocket  money  belonged  to  herself,  not  to  her  trustees. 
But  Uncle  Francis  may  have  been  legally  right. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  peculiar  attitude  of  my  uncles  and 
their  mother  about  my  father's  management  of  my  mother's  case 
— which  might  have  been  connected  with  a  blood-feud,  so  demon- 
strative did  they  become  over  it — the  settlementcering  might  not 
have  assumed  so  vicious  a  form  as  it  did  later.  Where  there  is 
goodwill  among  all  the  parties  to  a  settlement,  their  affairs  may 
be  managed  almost  as  well  as  though  no  settlement  had  ever  been 
made;  but  where  trustees  utilize  it  as  a  means  towards  the  lacera- 
tion of  co-trustees  or  cesfui-qui-trusls — and  we  are  all  human,  and 
not  to  be  trusted  with  power — settlementeering  ensues.  I  hope  that 
I  am  not  uncharitable  in  the  belief  that  my  Highbury  relations — 
for  I  include  the  old  lady — turned  my  father  out  of  his  house  to 
avenge  his  imputed  neglect  of  my  mother.  In  any  case  they  might 
have  deferred  the  decision  of  the  matter  until  it  was  known  what 


114  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

my  father's  income  was  going  to  be,  instead  of  hurrying  on  to 
outstrip  the  accountants  who  were  getting  the  affairs  of  the  Bank 
tidy,  to  make  a  good  show  when  the  final  winding-up  came.  As  it 
was  my  Uncle  Francis  contrived  to  get  a  very  high  bid  for  the 
unexpired  lease  of  the  house  within  two  months  of  my  mother's 
death,  and  he  engineered  this  offer  and  his  responsibility  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor  in  such  a  way  that.my  father's  sensitive  conscience 
forced  him  to  assent  to  an  arrangement  that  his  reason  mistrusted. 
Moreover,  he  had  little  choice,  for  my  uncle  "  pointed  out "  to 
him  that  though  he  was  treating  the  house  as  his  own,  it  was  in 
no  sense  his  property,  but  that  of  the  trustees,  who  were  entitled 
to  keep  it  or  sell  it,  for  the  benefit  for  its  inmates  of  course,  just 
as  much  as  consols :  standing  in  their  name.  As  for  whether  he 
remained  on  as  tenant,  that  would  "  rest  with  the  purchaser."  This 
came  by  letter,  for  my  uncle  had  refused  to  meet  my  father  "  for 
the  present." 

My  father,  I  believe,  wrote  back  to  the  effect  that  if  the  trustees 
provided  a  cheaper  substitute  for  the  house,  all  costs  of  removal 
considered,  their  position  would  be  a  justifiable  one.  He  doubted 
— he  said — whether  the  Lord  Chancellor  would  at  all  approve  of 
the  arrangement  without  such  a  condition  attached.  He  knew  that 
dignitary  formerly  at  Cambridge,  and  had  always  accounted  him  of 
sound  mind.  But  of  course  his  Chancellorship  had  since  then 
had  a  legal  education.  My  uncle's  countercheck  quarrelsome  to 
this  was  that  if  my  father  "  desired  an  official  application  to  the 
Chancellorship  "  he  would  "  promote  it  to  the  best  of  his  ability." 
But  he  "  had  to  remind  "  my  father,  that  the  offer  for  the  lease 
would  only  hold  good  for  a  limited  period;  terminating,  as  it  did, 
next  Easter,  namely,  "the  27th  prox";  I  remember  this,  because 
I  rejoiced  so  at  the  Easter  holidays  coming  so  early.  We  were 
then  near  the  end  of  February. 

If  my  Uncle  Francis  had  not,  maliciously  as  I  think,  precipitated 
this  disposal  of  the  Mecklenburg  Square  lease,  it  is  more  than  pos- 
sible that  the  house  would  have  remained  in  my  fathers  possession. 
The  final  settlement  of  his  affairs,  a  twelvemonth  later,  would  have 
warranted  his  offering  my  mother's  trustees  an  equivalent  for 
what  the  sale  brought,  although  he  might  have  had  to  let  part  of 
the  house  to  cover  it.  He  was,  however,  at  the  time  of  the  sale, 
under  the  belief  that  he  had  renounced  his  salary  as  a  Government 
employee,  and  indeed  this  seemed  warranted,  for  had  he  not  written 
his  resignation  and  received  a  formal  acknowledgment  of  it  ?  What 
better  evidence  could  he  havel 

Nevertheless  Somerset  House  did  not  lose  his  services,  nor  he 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  115 

its  salary,  for  a  long  time  after.  My  only  clue  to  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  this,  at  the  time,  was  a  conversation  I  overheard  be- 
tween him  and  an  official  colleague  who  came  one  evening,  and 
talked  with  him  long  and  earnestly,  dissuading  him  from  his 
resignation,  which,  as  it  appeared,  had  not  been  accepted  with 
avidity;  had  in  fact  been  pigeon-holed,  and  had  not  resulted,  so 
far,  in  the  appointment  of  a  substitute.  I  overheard  it  because 
when  this  gentleman — who  was  a  Sir,  and  whose  name  was  Brang- 
wyn  or  Brathwayt — glanced  at  me  as  I  sat  reading,  deeply  en- 
grossed in  the  last  number  of  Bleak  House,  my  father  said, 
''Never  mind  the  boy — if  you  don't?"  and  he  replied,  "I  don't." 
So  the  boy  remained,  and  what  he  has  become  remembers  frag- 
ments of  the  conversation,  as  thus : 

"  Your  friend's  eyes  are  very  queer — why  doesn't  he  have  them 
seen  to?  It's  a  surgeon's  job.  What  did  you  say  was  his 
name?" 

"  I  called  him  Scritchey  just  now.  He  always  calls  me  Strap. 
But  his  real  name  is  Stowe.  Alfred  Stowe.  We  were  boys  at 
school  together.  He  made  money  coffee-planting  in  Ceylon.  He's 
a  partner  in  Stacpoole's  now.  the  picture-auction  people." 

"  Well,  he  was  very  much  concerned  about  you.  Came  straight 
to  me  after  you  told  him  why " 

"  Yes,  I  know " 

" — why  you  were  doing  it,  and  said  he  was  certain  you  were  not 
yourself,  and  that  it  would  be  most  unfair  to  accept  your  resigna- 
tion." 

"  I  was  myself." 

'*  Perhaps,  but  how  was  I  to  know  it?  I  said,  it  didn't  lie  with 
me  to  accept  or  reject,  but  that  I  wished  it  did,  because  I  for  one 
should  miss  you  at  the  Office." 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Jim."  said  my  father  and  shook  hands  with 
the  gentleman,  who  continued : 

"  Mr.  Stowe  was  very  earnest  that  I  should  keep  back  your  letter 
as  long  as  possible,  and  communicate  with  you  again  as  late  as 
possible,  before  passing  it  on  to  Dalrymple.  I  saw  that  he  was 
reasonable,  and  have  done  so.  Now,  the  question  is " 

"  The  question  is — do  I  adhere  to  my  decision  ?  The  answer  is 
—Yes,  I  do !  " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Pascoe,  do  let  me  appeal  to  you.  I  respect  your 
motive,  Heaven  knows,  and  can  appreciate  it.  But  will  not  your 
promise  to " 

"—My  wife? " 

" — be  fulfilled  just  the  same  if  you  throw  up  the  place  this  time 


116  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

next  year?  Come  now,  be  reasonable!  Come  to  the  Office  for 
another  twelvemonth!" 

"Six  months!" 

"Well — make  it  a  compromise!  Go  on  to  the  end  of  the  year. 
.  .  .  All  right  I — very  well  then,  let  it  go  at  that !  .  .  .  Oh  no ! 
— I'm  not  fancying  you'll  change  your  mind.  Nothing  of  the 
sortl"  And  then  Sir  James  whatever-he-was  changed  the  subject, 
and  presently  departed. 

I  can  understand  from  this  conversation  exactly  how  my  father's 
connection  with  the  Inland  Revenue  remained  unchanged  until  the 
Christmas  following.  Why  he  did,  after  all,  change  his  mind,  and 
remain  in  office  indefinitely;  I  did  not  know  until  long  years  after. 
I  shall  have  to  record  it  in  its  proper  place,  if  I  carry  out  my 
scheme  of  writing  all  I  can  recollect,  to  be  read  by  my  Self  alone. 
So  I  need  not  write  any  more  about  it  here. 

At  this  point  my  memory  furnishes  me  with  something  to  dwell 
upon  with  pleasure — my  first  experience  of  the  joys  of  house- 
hunting. My  uncle  and  the  new  lessee  of  our  old  house  had  this 
much  grace  of  courtesy  in  them  left — that  is  Tennyson,  I  think — 
that  they  left  us  in  possession  till  Michaelmas.  But  it  was  no 
use  searching  for  a  new  domicile  till  my  father  had  a  more  definite 
idea  what  his  resources  were  going  to  be.  He  was  convinced  before 
midsummer  that  they  were  going  to  be  so  restricted  that  sixty 
pounds  a  year  would  be  our  maximum  figure  for  rent.  This  was 
a  very  different  thing  though,  in  those  days,  from  what  it  is  now. 
London  rent  has  doubled,  or  nearly,  since  the  early  fifties. 

House-hunting  is  like  opium  eating,  or  dram  drinking.  It 
begins  so  very  modestly,  and  takes  possession  of  its  victim  so  in- 
sidiously. The  sportsman  who  starts  in  the  morning  hoping  to 
bring  down  an  eligible  sparrow  at  most,  comes  back  in  the  eve- 
ning having  spent  his  ammunition  on  impracticable  elephants.  He 
dutifully  examines  one  or  two  shanties  well  within  his  means, 
goes  through  a  form  of  counting  the  bedrooms  and  measuring  the 
sitting-rooms,  and  makes  a  legal  entry — almost — of  the  landlord's 
name  and  address  on  a  clean  page  in  his  notebook.  Then  he  goes 
his  ways  and  forgets  them  heartlessly,  in  favour  of  one  very 
nearly  the  same  shape,  that  recommends  itself  less  offensively  to 
the  sanitary  nose.  These  too  he  discards  as  the  poison  enters  into 
his  system,  and  he  loses  eight  of  his  rent-limitations  in  view  of 
an  abstract  truth  that  there  is  no  harm  in  seeing  any  particular 
empty  house;  therefore  let  him  have  a  look  at  it  while  he's  there! 
The  first  shanties  are  merely  the  slow  introduction  to  a  symphony 
— those  very  deliberate  notes  far  apart  that  almost  seem  an  insult 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  117 

to  the  crude  musical  understanding  that  does  not  know  what  a 
magnificent  chaos  of  harmonies  and  discords  they  portend  as 
soon  as  the  composer's  concessions  allow  their  executants  to  get  the 
steam  .up.  The  really  brilliant  movement  begins — on  the  house- 
hunter's  side  of  the  metaphor — when  he  first  flings  rent  to  the 
winds,  and  admits  the  poisonous  idea  that  you  must  look  at  a 
thing  of  this  sort  all  round.  The  meaning  of  this  is  not  apparent 
on  the  surface  to  Inexperience;  those  who  know  will  at  once  asso- 
ciate it  with  schemes  for  taking  a  house  twice  as  large  as  you 
want,  and  letting  half  of  it  at  the  full  rent,  so  that  the  whole  affair 
will  "  stand  you  in  "  just  merely  the  rates  and  taxes  and  repairs. 
But  to  enjoy  a  castle-in-the-air  of  this  sort  to  the  full  needs  an 
enlarged  mind,  a  mind  saturated  with  premises;  each  example,  or 
set,  or  congeries — which  ought  it  to  be? — at  least  half  as  large 
again  as  its  predecessor.  Then  you  can  look  at  it  all  round. 

I  was  not  privileged  to  share  in  all  the  delights  of  the  many 
inspections  of  tenements  suited  for  our  occupation  in  every  respect 
but  one.  I  did  not  see  the  villa  at  St.  John's  Wood  whose  garden 
would  have  paid  for  itself,  nor  the  f ourteen-roomed  house  at  Ken- 
sington whose  rent  was  so  ridiculously  moderate,  till  it  was  con- 
victed of  being  merely  the  ground  rent  by  a  revelation  that  the 
premium  was  fifteen  hundred  pounds,  vouched  for  as  a  low  one  by 
an  agent  my  father  was  weak  enough  to  interview.  Nor  the  cot- 
tage that  really  might  have  been  built  for  us,  near  Hampstead; 
only  the  builder  had  chosen  the  wrong  side  of  Hampstead,  and  it 
turned  out  that  his  idea  of  proximity  was  two  miles.  It  was  nearer 
Hendon,  and  he  seemed  to  consider  it  a  mere  matter  of  senti- 
ment which  of  the  two  you  said.  "'Ampstead  and  'Endon,"  said 
he,  "  are  not  so  far  apart  in  theirselves,  if  you  come  to  that." 
Neither  suburb  was  in  a  position  to  throw  stones,  according  to 
him.  Still,  it  was  a  pity  it  was  so  far  from  my  school,  and  from 
Somerset  House.  For  my  father  continued  to  quote  Somerset 
House  as  a  factor  in  the  problem;  and  I,  ascribing  this  to  a  mere 
readiness  to  use  it  as  an  engine  in  argument  against  my  sisters 
— who  did  not  know  what  I  did  of  that  resignation  business — 
appreciated  what  I  thought  was  his  anxiety  that  I  should  not  be 
spirited  away  to  a  place  full  two  hours'  journey  from  my  school. 
Indeed,  this  was  what  stood  for  some  time  between  us  and  his 
final  decision  about  the  house  near  here  that  we  finally  came  to 
occupy. 

It  was  of  course  my  school  that  prevented  my  sharing  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase  to  the  full — that  is  to  say,  house-hunting. 
But  on  half-holidays  I  developed  into  a  perfect  Nimrod.  I  infected 


118  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Cooky  Moss  with  my  enthusiasm;  and  our  excursions  every 
Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoon  must  have  covered  on  an 
average  twenty  miles  of  roadway  in  London  and  the  suburbs  every 
week. 

It  was  after  such  an  excursion  that  he  and  I,  having  exhausted 
Wimbledon  Common  and  Putney  as  residential  neighbourhoods, 
found  ourselves  walking  back  along  the  King's  Koad,  Chelsea,  on  a 
glorious  summer  evening.  In  those  days  you  could  walk  from 
Putney  to  Chelsea  through  fields  all  the  way,  by  keeping  off  the 
road  a  little.  Putney  still  was,  and  Chelsea  was  almost,  in  the 
country.  I  can  recall  now  how  we  rested  at  Eelbrook  Common,  and 
what  the  hay  smelt  like.  If  I  had  not  given  up — see  supra  et 
passim — that  problem,  my  Self,  I  might  try  to  make  out  why  it  is 
that  I  can  lie  here  and  think  of  my  mother's  death,  almost  of  any 
death,  quite  calmly;  but  as  I  remember  the  smell  of  that  hay,  in 
those  fields  that  evening,  I  feel  as  though  my  heart  would  bear 
no  more — would  break  outright  and  give  me  my  release.  So  much 
the  better,  granting  bona  fide  Death — no  shuffles  about  Immortality? 
Misgivings  creep  into  my  mind,  as  into  the  Prince  of  Denmark's. 

I  must  needs  feel  the  same  as  I  write  the  rest.  It  is  all  very 
vivid  to  me,  by  some  chance.  Again  as  I  think  it  through,  Cooky 
jumps  to  his  feet  exclaiming,  "  This  won't  do,  young  feller.  Six 
o'clock!  Legs!"  which  was  a  brief  exhortation  to  walk.  I  can 
even  note  that  in  following  his  lead  I  am  caught  by  a  briar,  and 
have  to  disengage  it  with  care  from  my  trousers  before  I  can 
start  to  catch  him  up.  Then  we  got  under  way  in  fine  pedestrian 
style,  and  do  not  pause  until  we  have  got  well  past  Cremorne,  of 
which  we  took  no  notice,  as  indeed  we  knew  nothing  about  it,  nor 
for  that  matter  of  anything  else  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Just  beyond  the  kink  of  the  road,  that  must  have  been  caused 
by  some  antediluvian  pond,  Cooky  was  brought  up  short  by  a  4<  to- 
let  "  notice  over  a  gateway  on  the  left.  It  announced  the  existence 
of  an  eligible  bijou  residence  with  a  quarter-of-an-acre  of  garden 
and  a  coach-house. 

"Look  at  it,  or  not?"  said  Cooky,  who  always  treated  me  with 
great  decision,  to  correct  a  corresponding  defect  in  my  character. 
"  Say  which !  " 

"  Dinner !  "  said  I.  I  left  the  word  by  itself,  and  went  on :— "  But 
we  could  just  walk  down  and  look  at  it." 

"  Bother  dinner,"  said  my  friend.  "  Let's  go  down  the  lane  and 
see  what's  to  be  seen." 

The  lane  was  lined  with  trees  on  either  side,  elm  and  chestnut, 
and  was  entered  through  a  swing-gate  as  a  private  carriage-way, 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  119 

shared  by  two  or  three  residences  at  the  end.  The  gravel  pathway 
made  a  circle  between  them,  round  some  larger  older  elms,  to  make 
turning  room  for  things  on  wheels.  At  the  end  on  the  left,  unseen 
at  first,  was  a  garden  open  to  the  roadway,  except  for  chains  on 
posts,  that  hardly  counted,  and  its  owner  certainly  deserved  the 
rich  crop  of  peas  that  were  helping  the  universal  scent  of  hay  in 
the  kitchen-garden  behind,  if  only  for  having  planted  the  standard 
roses  on  the  smooth  bit  of  lawn  in  front.  However,  it  was  not  our 
business,  any  more  than  the  house  on  the  right  or  its  large  garden 
in  the  rear,  or  the  meadow  beyond  the  fence  at  the  end,  or  the  two 
fallow  deer — actually  fallow  deer ! — that  were  browsing  in  it.  Be- 
yond it  were  big  trees  in  some  private  park  or  garden. 

"  I  say,  Cooky/'  said  I,  "  this  is  just  exactly  the  sort  of  place 
for  us."  I  had  hardly  yet  set  eyes  on  the  house  itself — barely 
glanced  at  it. 

"  We  had  better  have  a  look  at  the  diggings  themselves  first," 
said  Cooky,  bent  on  sobriety  and  reason.  So  we  went  and  stood 
at  the  gate  of  the  eligible  bijou  residence,  and  looked.  "  I  suppose 
we  may  go  inside  if  the  gate's  open,"  said  he.  We  did,  anyhow. 

The  house — such  at  least  was  my  impression — laid  claim  to  the 
name  bijou  chiefly  because  of  certain  verandas  on  the  ground  floor, 
in  which  wood-trellis,  curvilinear  fretwork,  and  a  graceful  dip  in 
the  lead  roof  combined  towards  an  ornate  character.  Otherwise, 
Taste  seemed  to  have  kept  her  distance;  unless  indeed  a  mermaid 
that  had  climbed  up  on  a  plaster  bracket  to  blow  a  horn  had  been 
egged  on  by  her  to  do  so. 

We  did  not  at  first  know  where  a  voice  came  from — an  old  old 
voice — saying : — "  What  do  you  two  young  gentlemen  want  ?  It 
can't  be  here."  Then  we  saw  that  an  old,  old  man  was  speaking  to 
us  through  a  funny  little  grating  over  the  letter-box. 

Cooky  acted  as  prolocutor.  "  This  boy's  Governor,"  said  he,  "  is 
looking  for  a  house,  and  we  thought  this  might  do." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  still  looking  at  us  through  the 
grating,  and  said : — "  You  are  too  young  to  inspect  premises,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  This  boy's  Governor,"  said  my  friend,  "  sends  him  first  to 
look,  then  comes  himself.  Where's  the  card,  Buttons?"  This 
meant  my  father's  card,  which  he  always  made  me  carry  on  these 
excursions  as  a  kind  of  talisman  before  which  locks  and  bars 
would  give  way,  and  conviction  would  reach  the  souls  of  care- 
takers. I  put  it  through  the  grating  into  the  trembling  finger- 
tips of  the  old  boy,  and  hoped  it  would  appeal  to  him,  somehow. 
It  did,  ultimately. 


120  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

He  seemed  to  read  it  a  good  deal  before  his  cracked  old  voice 
came  again : — '"  Mecklenburg  Square — Mecklenburg  Square !  Why 
does  your  father  want  to  leave  his  big  house  in  Mecklenburg 
Square?  He  wouldn't  have  any  room  here.  Look  at  the  size  of 
it !  "  He  pushed  the  card  back  through  the  grating  for  me  to  take. 
Acceptance  of  it  would  close  negotiations  perhaps,  and  I  didn't 
want  that.  I  have  often  thought  how  much  may  have  been  hanging 
at  that  moment  on  the  simple  issue — could  the  interview  be  pro- 
longed, or  not? 

I  prolonged  it  by  a  heedless  frankness,  whose  efficacy  surprised 
me  then,  being  a  boy.  It  does  not  now.  I  said : — "  Because  my 
mother's  dead  and  the  house  has  to  be  sold.  My  governor  says  we 
could  do  with  a  lot  smaller  house.  I  say,  Sir,  do  let  us  see  inside." 
The  card  made  concession,  withdrawing  into  the  house,  and  the 
door  was  slowly  opened.  u  I'll  show  you  the  house,  my  boy.  Do 
you  know  why?"  I  said  no,  and  Cooky  said  no.  "Then  I'll  tell 
you.  I'll  show  you  the  house  because  of  why  I'm  giving  it  up.  It's 
the  same  as  your  father.  My  wife  is  dead,  and  I  have  to  go.  We 
lived  here  fifty  years.  The  house  was  new  when  we  came.  Come 
through  into  the  garden  and  see  the  fig-tree  I  planted.  Fifty  years 
ago!" 

We  followed  him  straight  through  the  house  and  a  greenhouse 
into  the  garden.  It  was  a  lovely  garden,  and  stretched  away  to  a 
high  hedge  with  a  road  beyond,  and  haycarts.  at  a  standstill  at  a 
roadside  pothouse.  I  saw  a  carter's  head  and  hands  and  a  quart- 
pot  above  the  mountain  of  hay  that  hid  his  residuum.  He  had  been 
too  lazy  to  get  down  for  his  drink. 

There  was  the  fig-tree,  sure  enough,  doing  well.  I  am  afraid  boys 
are  a  cold-blooded  race,  for  the  impression  it  produced  on  me 
was  that  it  would  be  a  fine  asset  for  an  incoming  tenant,  pre- 
ferably my  father.  We  could,  however,  enter  freely  on  admiration 
without  analysis  of  its  motives,  and  did  so. 

But  the  old  man  reserved  complete  assent.  "  It  isn't  what  it 
was,"  said  he.  ."  It  was  open  country  then.  All  built  up  now — 
all  built  up!"  He  looked  towards  the  backs  of  new  houses  that 
•were  asserting  themselves  crudely  along  the  King's  Road.  They 
did  not  trouble  us. 

He  took  us  into  the  house  and  showed  us  the  rooms.  Everything 
was  in  its  place,  as  though  there  were  no  lack  of  use  for  them — 
all  in  good  order.  Yet  the  old  man  seemed  alone  in  the  house,  at 
the  moment.  "  I  have  not  allowed  them  to  move  anything,"  said  he. 
"  Nothing  will  be  touched  till  I  go."  He  hung  fire  a  little  at  one 
door,  which  was  locked,  then  opened  it  saying : — "  My  wife's  room 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  121 

— our  room.  Fifty  years ! — no ! — look  in  and  see  it."  For  we  hung 
back  a  little.  Then  he  showed  us  the  small  coach-house  and 
stable-yard,  empty.  He  had  sent  the  horse  and  trap  away,  he  said, 
but  his  coachman's  wife  came  in  to  do  for  him.  That  ended  the 
inspection.  He  said : — "  There,  boys ! — now  you've  seen  it.  Tell 
your  father,  if  he  comes  to  see  the  house,  not  to  go  to  the  agent. 
I  would  sooner  show  it  him  myself.  Tell  him  it's  small."  He 
seemed  anxious  that  my  father  should  not  make  a  journey  under 
a  misconception,  but  for  all  that  to  hope  he  would  come.  Being 
a  boy,  I  only  half  read  his  feelings.  I  can  quite  understand  them 
now. 

"  He's  in  Somerset  House,  my  father  is,"  said  I.  "  He  can't 
always  get  away.  Might  he  come  late  in  the  afternoon?" 

"Why  shouldn't  he  come  on  Sunday  morning?"  said  the  old 
gentleman. 

"  He'll  come,  fast  enough,"  said  I.  It  was  what  I  wanted,  on 
my  father's  behalf.  "  It's  Nebuchadnezzar's  Sunday  today,"  I 
added,  looking  at  Cooky,  and  puzzling  the  old  gentleman  out  of  all 
reason.  So  I  explained : — "  Because  he's  a  Jew,  you  see,  and  that's 
why  we  call  him  Nebuchadnezzar."  Whether  I  was  intelligible 
I  do  not  know,  but  it  was  clear  that  my  father  was  to  come  on 
Sunday,  and  that  the  old  boy  was,  for  some  reason  not  quite  cleared 
up,  rather  pleased  that  he  should  do  so. 

Cooky  and  I  threshed  the  subject  out  as  soon  as  we  were  under 
way  again.  But  discipline  demanded  that  neither  of  us  should 
show  human  feeling,  for  it  is  unmanly  to  do  so.  I  broke  silence  as 
we  crossed  Church  Street — not  before.  "  What  a  rum  old  bird !  " 
said  I. 

"  Wasn't  he  a  rum  old  bird !  "  said  Cooky. 

"  I  say,  Cooky "  I  began,  tentatively. 

"What's  your  idea?"  said  he.     "Because  I've  got  one." 

*'  Why — don't  you  see — well,  it  was  rum,  wasn't  it  now,  to  let  us 
in  all  over  the  house,  when  the  board  said  distinctly  go  to  the 
agent  ? " 

"  Well,  no ! — on  the  whole,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't 
think  it  particularly  rum.  Because  of  what  you  said!" 

"About  my  Governor?" 

"  That  was  my  idea.    Because  it  was  like !  " 

"  Awfully  like,  wasn't  it  ? "  Both  our  voices  dropped  over  this 
enigmatical  interchange,  whose  meaning  was  perfectly  clear  to 
both  of  us.  The  word  awfully  had,  however,  no  kinship  with  the 
subject,  being  as  usual  a  mere  expletive  to  intensify  the  exact 
likeness  of  the  two  bereavements,  the  rum  old  bird's  and  my 


122  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

father's.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  they  were  singularly  unlike  in 
all  respects — had  nothing  in  common  but  the  main  fact,  widower- 
hood.  But  our  incoherence,  as  boys,  was  purely  intellectual. 
Morally,  our  view  was  quite  sound  and  healthy.  Details  of  how, 
where,  and  when  a  mate's  place  in  the  nest  is  left  empty  are  as 
nothing  against  the  one  great  fact  of  the  void  that  is  left,  whether 
it  be  in  the  heart  of  old  birds  or  young. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

So  that  old  man  and  his  wife  who  was  dead  and  gone,  had  lived 
in  that  house  for  thirty-seven  years  when  I  forsook  a  harmless  non- 
existence  for  an  equivocal  humanity,  thirteen  years  before.  Did 
they  snap  and  bicker,  I  wonder — those  two?  I  received  the  im- 
pression that  they  had  not  done  so.  But  does  not  the  survivor, 
quenched  and  gentle  after  collision  with  Death,  always  give  that 
impression?  Who  would  have  guessed,  to  hear  my  father  talk  of  his 
life  with  my  mother,  that  such  a  thing  as  a  family  jar  had  ever 
existed?  I  detect  no  hypocrisy  in  it;  indeed  in  my  father's  case  at 
least,  it  was  honest  delusion. 

Before  I  came  into  this  Infirmary — since  which  time  I  have  been 
bedridden,  or  something  very  like  it — I  always  availed  myself  of  the 
liberty  of  my  walks  out  in  the  neighbourhood  to  prowl  down  The 
Retreat,  as  my  old  home  was  called ; — for  now  it  became  to  me  my 
old  home,  as  then  it  was  old  Mr.  Wardroper's.  That  was  his 
name;  and  though  it  seemed  an  improbable  one  to  my  youthful 
mind — and  really  I  thought  at  the  time  that  he  must  be  mistaken 
about  it — it  now  strikes  me  as  the  only  name  he  could  rationally 
have  had.  The  last  time  I  saw  the  place  I  wondered  what  he 
would  feel  if  he  could  come  back  to  life  and  the  sight  of  it. 

For  though  it  remained  then  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  bricks 
and  mortar  that  grew  and  grew  throughout  the  whole  of  our  occu- 
pancy, the  signs  of  its  approaching  doom  were  upon  it.  The  en- 
trance gateway  swung  helpless  on  one  hinge  and  it  seemed  no  one's 
business  to  repair  it.  The  lane  was  defiled  with  filth  and  dis- 
carded journalism,  and  the  trees  were  dead  or  dying.  The  gardens 
remained,  but  a  weed  familiar  to  me  that  I  never  knew  the  rijrht 
name  of  had  overrun  them,  and  the  standard  rose-trees  were  things 
of  the  past,  though  I  detected  a  stick  trying  hard  to  pretend  it 
had  been  one — a  stick  with  prongs,  tied  long  ago  with  bass  to  a 
stick  without — yes,  tied  by  a  real  gardener.  Our  house  was  no 
longer  there,  but  traces  of  it  appeared  in  the  structure  of  two 
smaller  houses,  on  its  site,  one  of  them  inhabited  by  artists,  who  had 
built  a  studio  on  our  garden.  Where  have  they  not  done  so,  and 
who  wants  the  work  they  do  in  them?  Nemesis  had  come  upon 

123 


124  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

these,  for  a  giant  factory  had  sprung  up  and  overwhelmed  them 
and  their  studio,  and  even  the  old  retreat  for  that  matter.  It 
stood — this  factory — on  the  sites  of  those  intruders  old  Mr. 
Wardroper  had  felt  so  sore  about ;  the  new  houses  that  had  blocked 
the  open  country  out,  for  him.  They  had  served  their  turn,  been 
homes  and  made  memories,  and  been  worked  up  into  their  own 
weight  of  factory.  Even  so  old  clothes  are  made  shoddy,  to  re- 
appear as  Fabrics  at  Stores  and  be  sold  for  something-three-farth- 
ings a  yard,  and  last  quite  a  long  time  considering  how  cheap 
they  were.  I  suppose  that  one  day  the  factory  will  come  down 
and  make  shoddy  for  flat-builders,  who  seem  to  be  threatening. 
How  the  old  bricks  will  dream  of  the  days  when  they  were  the 
walls  of  domiciles,  with  a  staircase  apiece,  and  cupboards,  and 
rents  that  had  mercy  on  the  tenants'  pockets. 

On  that  day,  as  I  stood  and  wondered  whether  the  fig-tree  the 
old  forgotten  inhabitant  had  planted  survived  in  the  back  garden,  I 
noticed  that  our  old  coachhouse-gate  was  still  there,  with  its  two 
big  globes  on  piers  on  either  side,  but  that  the  coachhouse  had  gone 
to  make  way  for  the  studio.  The  gate  was  half  buried  in  garden 
mould  at  the  back  heaped  up  for  a  border,  and  shrubs  were  thick 
behind  it;  and  to  the  front  in  the  road-growth — that  curious  in- 
evitable change  of  level  that  makes  towns  seem  to  be  courting 
burial;  and  explains  their  discovery  underground,  long  ages  after 
they  have  been  forgotten — the  grass  and  weeds  were  thick,  and  fungi 
were  caressing  its  rotten  timbers,  and  pretending  to  sympathize 
with  their  decay.  This  old  disintegrating  portal  over  which 
Cooky  and  I  saw  the  announcement  that  the  clean-painted,  scrupu- 
lously cared  for  mansion  was  for  sale,  brought  home  to  me  the 
long  scores  of  years  I  have  had  to  undergo  since  then,  and  have 
somehow  had  the  heart  to  live  through.  Here  I  am  so  cut  away 
from  every  outward  thing  connected  with  my  past,  such  a  mere 
waif  adrift  in  a  current  of  memory  that  may  at  any  moment  dry 
up  and  leave  me  a  prey  to  nothingness — I  resort  to  nonsense  that 
tells  me  my  own  thought,  as  and  when  I  choose — that  it  would 
be  almost  more  relief  than  pain  to  me  to  see  the  old  gate  once 
more,  a  something  visible  out  of  the  bygone  time,  a  shred  of  it 
to  catch  at  and  be  convinced  of  its  reality.  But  I  never  shall, 
for  I  am  to  be  kept  quite  still  by  the  doctor's  orders,  lest  I  should 
get  my  release  one  moment  too  soon.  He  is  much  exercised  and 
interested  in  the  question  how  long  so  weak  a  heart  will  coun- 
tenance its  owner's  life,  when  every  other  function  is  entirely 
sound,  and  there  is  no  active  disease  at  all  to  take  the  initiative 
in  his  extinction.  He  comes  every  day  to  examine  it,  and  talks 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  125 

about  systolic  movements  and  so  on;  and,  though  he  shows  sur- 
prise at  my  pertinacity,  is  in  earnest  in  his  encouragement  of  it. 
I  think  he  regards  me  as  an  instance  of  temporary  immortality, 
not  warranted  by  precedent. 

I  do  not  talk  to  him  about  myself;  in  fact,  I  scarcely  exchange 
a  word  with  any  one  here,  except  the  Matron.  She  and  I  are 
very  good  friends,  now,  but  shall  we  continue  so,  if  she  persists 
in  suggesting  that  I  should  take  the  blessed  Sacrament  from  the 
hands  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carpenter,  who  attends  to  the  souls  of  such 
of  us  as  seek  his  ministrations — that's  the  word,  I  believe?  I 
have  explained  to  her  that  I  have  never  been  a  member  of  the 
Church  of  England,  or  of  any  communion,  but  she  did  not  seem  to 
attach  any  weight  to  this,  nor  to  what  I  believed,  only  saying: — 
"  That's  because  you  dislike  Mr.  Carpenter,  but  indeed  he's  a 
very  good  man."  What  had  that  to  do  with  the  matter?  He  was 
ordained,  I  suppose.  Miss  Ensoll  added : — "  Perhaps  you'll  like  Mr. 
Cartwright  who  is  coming  instead  next  Thursday  ?  He's  heterodox 
enough,  they  tell  me.  I  don't  think  the  name's  Cartwright  though, 
I  think  its  Mackintosh."  Vagueness  about  names  reached  perfec- 
tion in  Miss  Ensoll's  mind. 

I  shall  get  back  to  the  old  gate  directly — in  my  writing  I  mean, 
though  never  in  reality — but  before  I  do  so  I  like  to  put  on 
record  why  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carpenter  and  I  only  say  good-morning. 
He  and  I  had  some  talk  awhile  back,  and  the  good  man,  to  elicit 
I  suppose  whatever  of  orthodoxy  was  dormant  in  my  soul,  sighed 
— so  to  speak — over  Jews,  Turks,  Heretics,  and  Infidels.  This 
nettled  me,  on  Cooky's  behalf.  I  explained  civilly  that  my  oldest 
friend,  and  one  of  my  dearest,  had  boen  an  unalloyed  Jew,  and 
must  have  been  doomed  to  a  certainty  on  those  lines.  And  not 
only  that,  but  that  my  tobacconist  in  Bond  Street,  twenty  years 
back,  with  whom  I  was  on  cordial  terms,  was  an  unmistakable  Turk, 
though  he  sported  a  Greek  name,  while  my  father  was  surely  a 
Heretic  if  ever  there  was  one.  So  that  I  was  not  unreasonable  in 
preferring  to  retain  my  own  Infidelity  intact,  to  have  a  chance 
of  seeing  one  of  them  again,  if  it  were  only  Lucas  Palingorides. 
The  Rev.  pulled  a  long  face  when  he  found  that  his  schedules  of 
the  damned  would  include  friends  of  mine,  and  made  concession. 
We  must  hope.  After  all,  were  not  the  mercies  of  God  infinite? 
I  am  afraid  my  comment  on  this,  u  If  so,  what's  all  the  fuss  about  ?  " 
put  an  impassable  gulf  between  me  and  Mr.  Carpenter.  For 
though  he  is  good,  he  has  not  the  brains  to  perceive  that  there  is 
a  limit,  of  his  own  making,  to  the  mercies  of  God,  as  long  as  we 
have  any  occasion  for  anxiety.  Anyhow,  the  Rev.  and  I  only  say 


126  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

good-morning  now.  And  I  think  it  hard  on  him — if  he  is  yearning 
for  me — for  I  had  dragged  in  the  argumentum  ab  homine,  which  is 
as  bad  as  the  argumentum  ad  hominem  on  this  topic  of  damnation. 
It  is  a  subject  that  should  be  kept  free  from  personalities.  Per- 
fect strangers  be  damned! 

Now  as  to  the  old  gate.  My  memory,  crossing  fifty-odd  years 
at  a  bound,  finds  me  approaching  it  in  a  hansom  cab  beside  my 
father,  calling  out,  "  This  house  on  the  left,"  in  pursuance  of  the 
usage  which  makes  cabs  so  very  anxious  to  go  exactly  to  their 
destination  and  not  a  yard  further.  So  much  so  that  a  proud 
cab  that  overshoots  its  mark  will  keep  you  in  its  jaws  while  it 
revokes,  in  order  to  be  intensely  opposite  your  destination.  It  is 
professional  feeling,  and  one  has  to  defer  to  it. 

"  Big  enough  for  you  and  one  sister-girl,"  said  my  father.  "  But 
not  for  the  whole  gang."  He  stopped  and  left  something  unsaid, 
visibly;  something  perhaps  that  would  have  referred  to  the  gang's 
recent  diminution,  and  qualified  it.  Instead,  he  half-whistled  till 
•we  were  admitted  by  the  coachman's  wife,  still  in  office  till  the  old 
bird's  flitting.  We  walked  in  and  Mr.  Wardroper  came  directly, 
fulfilling  a  pledge  she  had  given,  on  his  behalf. 

I  felt  greatly  relieved  to  see  my  father's  gradual  conversion  to  a 
belief  in  the  capacity  of  the  bijou  residence.  He  did  not  admit  it, 
but  I  could  read  his  mind  well  enough  to  see  into  his  motives  when 
he  disclaimed  powers  of  deciding  on  the  accommodation  necessary 
for  his  three  daughters,  and  represented  them,  as,  so  to  speak,  pala- 
tial in  their  ideas,  and  very  exacting  in  their  demands  for  super- 
fluous luxuries.  He  was  really  building  a  golden  bridge  to  retreat 
across  in  case  momentary  enthusiasms,  provoked  by  unexpected 
developments  of  room-space,  should  give  false  hopes  either  to  its 
owner  or  myself.  As  for  me,  I  was  so  in  love  with  the  place, 
that  I  was  quite  surprised  that  my  father  did  not  clinch  the  bargain, 
then  and  there. 

I  was  nearly  as  much  surprised,  however,  that  the  old  gentleman 
said  nothing,  in  my  hearing  at  least,  to  my  father  of  his  own  wife's 
death.  I  wonder  now,  being  an  old  man  myself,  that  I  could  not 
then  see  what  is  now  so  clear  to  me,  that  it  was  far  easier  for  him 
to  talk  of  his  loss  to  two  raw  boys  than  to  any  fellow-man.  Never- 
theless, I  believe  they  did  speak  briefly  of  their  common  sorrow,  to 
judge  of  what  I  caught  of  their  talk  when  I  returned  from  a 
private  exploration  of  the  garden;  countenanced  by  both,  with 
cautions  from  my  father  to  climb  nothing,  and  keep  off  the  borders. 

A  very  few  words  supplied  at  a  guess,  and  the  talk  I  heard  runs 
thus: 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  127 

"  I  can't  say  why — No ! — I  can't  say  why — but  I  should  like  you 
to  have  it." 

"  I  will  write  at  once  to  tell  you,  if  it  seems  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  am  rather  afraid  of  my  girls,  because  of  the  size.  But  we 
must  talk  it  over.  They  must  come  and  see  for  themselves." 

"But  you  like  the  place?" 

"  Oh  yes,  7  like  it  very  much.  And  the  boy  is  off  his  head.  .  .  . 
Oh,  there  he  is.  You  like  it,  Eustace  John,  don't  you?" 

My  enthusiasm  found  relief  in  a  scornful  tone.  "  Rather ! " 
said  I.  and  my  father  laughed.  The  old  man  smiled — a  shadowy 
smile,  not  to  ignore  my  father's  laugh.  But  he  had  something  to 
say: 

"  Which  side  of  Mecklenburg  Square  is  your  house,  Mr.  Pas- 
coe?" 

"  North  side.    Number  sixty-four.    Did  you  know  it  ? " 

"  Oh  yes — I  knew  the  Square.  But  a  long  while  since  .  .  . 
yes,  a  very  long  while  since."  His  voice  implied  that  it  was  too 
long  ago  to  talk  about,  for  any  practical  purpose.  I  felt  curiosity, 
but  my  father  showed  none. 

Coming  back  in  the  cab,  which  had  waited  for  us  by  contract — the 
supreme  being  having  slept  in  its  recesses  while  his  horse  cropped 
selections  above  and  below,  and  dealt  with  flies  in  detail — my 
father  damped  my  ardour.  Instead  of  bursting  into  a  paean  over 
the  bijou  residence,  he  merely  said: — "Nice  little  crib!"  And 
when  a  report  was  submitted  to  my  sisters  of  the  accommodation 
available  at  The  Retreat,  they  rose  as  one  young  woman,  and 
protested  against  its  palpable  impossibility.  Papa  was  really  wast- 
ing his  time  visiting  little  cottages  no  one  could  ever  dream  of 
living  in,  and  there  all  the  while  was  that  delicious  place  at  the 
foot  of  Highgate  Hill,  which  would  be  snapped  up  to  a  certainty 
unless  opportunity  were  taken  by  the  forelock,  and — one  might 
have  added — scalped.  Of  course  Chelsea  was  nearer  Somerset  House 
than  Highgate;  but  when  you  drove  into  town,  a  mile  more  or 
less  couldn't  matter. 

That  such  an  argument  as  this  last  could  be  advanced  shows  me 
now  that  even  at  this  date,  six  months  after  my  mother's  death,  my 
sisters  were  not  properly  alive  to  the  state  of  my  father's  finances. 
I  suppose  that  they  had  been  hoodwinked  by  the  spurious  appear- 
ance of  solvency  that  so  often  casts  a  glamour  over  affairs  that  are 
being  wound  up.  Many  a  time  in  my  experience  have  I  known 
financial  desperation  in  theory  to  be  accompanied  by  a  mysterious 
command  of  ready  money  in  practice.  Opulence  dies  game,  I  sup- 
pose, before  Retrenchment  begins  in  earnest. 


128  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  have  to  remind  myself  constantly  that  an  attempt  to  write  what 
one  can  remember  of  one's  past  need  not  include  the  discovery 
of  all  its  underlying  reasons.  I  was  a  youngster  not  fourteen  at 
that  time,  and  when  I  ask  myself  now  how  was  it  that  our 
brougham  and  its  belongings  had  not  vanished  months  ago,  I  find 
I  cannot  answer  the  question.  I  have  a  hazy  recollection  of  a 
phantom  aphorism  haunting  discussions  of  the  situation,  to  the 
effect  that  it  would  cost  just  as  much  to  give  it  up  as  to  keep 
it  on.  When  I  try  to  remember  who  uttered  it  I  am  altogether  at 
fault.  All  I  know  now  is  that  the  reason  we  had  a  hansom  this  time 
was  that  Roberta  and  Miss  Evans  wanted  the  brougham  to  drive 
them  to  Clapham  after  Church;  and  certainly  it  had  carried  some  of 
them  to  the  Highgate  Hill  discovery  the  day  before.  I  rather 
think  it  was  this  luxury  which  clung  to  us  and  refused  to  be  given 
up,  that  was  answerable  for  that  view  that  a  mile  more  or  less 
didn't  matter. 

"  A  mile  more  or  less,"  said  my  father  at  lunch  that  Sunday, 
"  doesn't  matter  when  you  drive  into  town.  But  when  you  have 
nothing  to  drive  in,  you  don't  drive  into  town."  He  addressed 
Ellen,  Gracey,  Mr.  Stowe,  and  Ellen's  fiance — of  whom  by-the-by 
nothing  has  been  recorded,  owing  to  my  recollecting  so  little  of  him. 
But  his  name  was  Wicking,  and  there  are  no  two  ways  of  recollect- 
ing a  name  like  that. 

In  commune  with  my  Self,  I  have  decided  that  I  am  quite 
justified  in  forgetting  even  the  little  I  have  retained  about 
Wicking.  Surely  if  there  is  one  person  more  than  another  one  has 
a  right  to  forget,  it  is  a  young  man  with  too  little  hair  brushed 
too  tight  over  his  head,  who  was  attached  to  one's  elder  sister  fifty 
years  ago,  but  who  came  off,  owing  to  some  unsoundness  in  the 
attachment.  I  claim  the  right  to  forget  Wicking  to  the  full  extent 
of  my  powers,  more  especially  as  he  did  not  shine  when  detached. 
He  had  contrived — so  my  recollection  runs — to  force  all  the  respon- 
sibility for  that  operation  on  my  father.  However,  I  am  sure  it  was 
a  let  off  for  Ellen,  Varnish  said  he  was  a  riddance.  For  all  that, 
I  wished  I  had  been  big  enough  to  thrash  him.  If  it  had  been 
Gracey  I  really  believe  I  should  have  made  the  attempt. 

Mr.  Stowe  laughed  aloud  in  derision  at  my  father's  implied 
renunciation  of  the  brougham.  "  What's  the  next  article,  Strap, 
my  boy?"  said  he.  "What  shall  we  knpck  off  next?  Blankets, 
counterpanes,  pillows,  animal  food,  boots  and  shoes?  Give  it  a 
name.  Which  is  it  to  be  ? " 

"  The  whole  of  the  articles  you  have  enumerated,  Mr.  Stowe," 
said  my  father,  with  an  assumed  sententiousness,  "  belong  strictly 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  129 

to  the  category  of  the  necessities  of  life,  so  called.  Broughams 
nothing  of  this  sort  pass  the  mustard."  These  last  words  all  ran 
together,  reinforcing  meaning  by  a  sudden  change  of  style. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry !  "  said  Mr.  Stowe,  who  was  helping  him- 
self. "  Directly.  Wait  till  I've  done  with  the  pot.  .  .  .  Now  we 
can  pursue  the  subject.  Be  good  enough  to  observe  that  the  man 
who  goes  in  cold  blood  to  live  in  a  suburb,  when  his  vocation  is  at 
Somerset  House,  has  to  be  carried  to  and  fro,  or  to  and  not  fro,  or 
fro  and  not  to.  The  same  remark  applies  to  his  daughters — except 
Somerset  House.  But  Farmer  and  Rogers  are  further  from 
Chelsea  than  Somerset  House."  He  added,  in  confidence  to  my 
father : — "  It's  all  gammon,  Strap.  You  won't  have  to  part  with  the 
brougham.  Just  you  wait  and  see !  " 

"  Nor  Miss  Evans,  I  hope,"  said  Ellen.  "  Because  if  you  do 
Bertie's  temper  will  become  quite  impossible,  and  it's  trying  enough 
as  it  is.  And  I  shall  give  up."  Ellen  always  laid  claim  to  being 
an  overtaxed  pivot  on  which  all  things  turned.  Which  is  a 
simile,  but  not  a  happy  one;  for  a  pivot  contributes  nothing  to 
working  power,  and  I  am  sure  my  sister  was  a  cypher  in  the 
housekeeping,  although  her  constant  declarations  that  she  should 
give  up  seemed  to  imply  the  contrary.  I  am  certain  none  of  the 
household  ever  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  Ellen.  Still,  her  con- 
viction remained  that  the  Universe  would  collapse  if  her  sustaining 
power  gave  out.  I  despised  her  at  this  time,  but  that  was  largely 
on  account  of  her  entichement  for  Mr.  Wicking.  I  should  have 
had  a  low  opinion  of  her  in  any  case  as  a  victim  of  the  tender 
passion — classing  all  such  as  awful  idiots — but  when  its  object  was 
per  se  contemptible,  scorn  must  needs  reach  its  climax,  and  did 
so.  In  communion  with  Varnish,  aside,  I  went  great  lengths  in 
condemnation  of  Mr.  Thomas  Wicking,  generalizing  freely  at  his 
expense.  All  gentlemen  of  independent  means  and  no  fixed  em- 
ployment were  sneaks.  Wearers  of  shiny  boots  with  thin  soles  were 
milksops.  All  habitual  bearers  of  walking  canes  were  stuck-up. 
All  boobies  were  snobs,  and  vice  versa.  And  Mr.  Wicking  was  a 
typical  offender  on  all  these  points.  Besides,  his  trousers  were  too 
tight. 

The  text  of  my  indictments  against  this  culprit  is  far  clearer  in 
my  memory  than  any  image  of  the  man  himself — a  funny  trick 
for  one's  powers  of  recollection  to  play!  But  it  so  changes  that 
one  of  my  clearest  recollections  of  him  is  of  his  demeanour  and 
appearance  at  this  same  Sunday  lunch.  He  was  a  very  polite 
young  man  with  a  startled  glare,  whose  eyeglass  never  stayed  in. 
It  was  difficult  to  resist  the  conviction  that  the  glare  had  knocked 


130  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

it  out.  He  gave  the  idea  that  he  was  always  being  taken  aback 
by  a  sudden  demand  on  his  powers  of  courtesy;  perhaps  because  of 
audible  snippets  of  hesitation  that  seemed  chronic,  though  they 
occasionally  took  form,  as,  u  I — I  beg  your  pardon  I  "  "  No,  really 

Hot  on  my  account !  "    "  Don't  mention  it,  I  beg "    "  Not  of  the 

slightest  consequence,  I  assure  you,  'pon  my  honour!"  disclaimers 
which  always  seemed  to  improve  his  position,  and  confirm  it  as 
that  of  a  very  gentlemanly  young  man.  They  always  got  his  way 
for  him,  under  a  specious  pretext  of  readiness  to  stand  out  of 
yours.  I  may  be  wrong  in  my  recollection  that  he  said,  as  a  sort 
of  grace  before  meat,  "I  very  seldom  touch  anything  at  this  time 
of  day,"  and  looked  surprised  at  every  single  thing  that  was  offered 
to  him ;  but  I  am  certain  of  this,  that  whenever  he  asked  for  more, 
he  waited  till  no  more  was  coming,  and  then  cried  in  panic : — "  Oh, 
heaps  too  much ! — thank  you — thank  you !  "  But  he  finished  it, 
whatever  it  was. 

"  Give  up  Miss  Evans,"  said  my  father — this  resumes  the  con- 
versation on  previous  page — "  not  so  bad  as  that,  Nelly !  No,  no, 
we  won't  give  up  Miss  Evans.  She  must  be  Miss  Evans  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter !  " 

"  Unless  she  gets  married,"  said  both  my  sisters  simultaneously, 
and  thereupon  that  fool  Wicking  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  to 
say  in  his  best  society  manner: — "Aha  yes! — mustn't  forget  that! 
'Tractive  young  woman  under  thirty — never  can  tell!"  What  I 
remember  specially  is  his  image  as  he  said  this,  with  ten  extended 
admonitory  fingers,  deprecating  rash  condemnations  to  spinster- 
hood;  and  then  picking  up  his  knife  and  fork  again. 

"  Think  so  ? "  said  Mr.  Stowe.  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  all 
things  considered.  Yes."  I  wondered  what  were  all  the  things 
to  be  considered  and  decided  that  one  must  certainly  be  Miss 
Evans's  ample  crinoline,  or  rather  the  yards  too  many  of  skirt  that 
hung  on  it.  Perhaps  Miss  Evans's  hair,  of  which  she  was  vain, 
and  the  net  she  kept  it  in,  might  be  two  more  things." 

"  Unless  she  gets  married  of  course,"  said  my  father.  And  there 
ean  be  no  doubt  that  at  the  time  he  meant  it.  He  added  after 
reflection : — "  No,  no — we  mustn't  compel  her  to  be  Miss  Evans  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter,  against  her  will." 

"  Miss  Evans  isn't  under  thirty,"  Gracey  struck  in,  in  the  in- 
terests of  Truth.  "  Miss  Evans  is  thirty-one  if  she's  a  minute. 
Because  her  older  sister  is  six  years  older,  and  she's  thirty-seven. 
I  know  I'm  right,"  added  Gracey,  flashing  into  self -justification,  to 
meet  and  nip  in  the  bud  an  incredulity  that  seemed  brewing.  That 
fool  Wicking  was  shaking  his  head  and  saying: — "  Come,  I  say,  you 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  131 

know.  No  scandal  against  Queen  Elizabeth !  "  Which  I  am  certain 
meant  nothing,  in  the  context. 

"  Then  I  shall  tell  Bertie  you  said  so."  Thus  Ellen,  sotio  voce 
to  Gracey. 

"  All  right.  Tell  away.  I  shall  say  it  as  much  as  I  like, 
Bertie  or  no  Bertie!  Thirty-one — thirty-one — thirty-one!"  Thus 
Gracey,  more  sopra  than  sotto  voce,  defiantly.  For  she  and  Miss 
Evans  lived  in  strained  relations.  It  seems  singular  to  me,  now, 
that  thirty-one  should  be  counted  an  age  to  justify  taunts  from 
juniors,  and  a  serious  drawback  in  husband-hunting.  It  was  so,  in 
the  middle  of  last  century;  and  to  me,  as  I  think  back  to  it,  that 
seems  the  other  day. 

"  Hush,  hush — children,"  said  my  father.  "  Don't  quarrel." 
Whereupon  the  encounter,  ended,  ostensibly ;  but  I  am  sure  I  heard 
Gracey  say  at  intervals,  for  some  time  thereafter,  "  Thirty-one," 
quite  under  her  breath. 

The  young  lady  who  was — or  wasn't  thirty-one  did  not  reappear 
in  the  afternoon,  as  she  and  Bertie  stayed  where  they  lunched  till 
late,  only  coming  back  to  supper,  as  dinner  was  called  on  Sunday, 
because  only  the  potatoes  were  hot.  Then  afternoon  had  ended 
and  it  was  evening.  After  supper,  formal  comparison  ensued  be- 
tween the  Highgate  house,  seen  yesterday,  and  our  new  discovery 
at  Chelsea.  I  only  remember  that  each  of  the  two  prospecting 
parties  was  so  besotted  about  the  perfection  of  its  own  find  that  it 
would  hardly  listen  to  the  rhapsodies  of  the  other.  In  the  end, 
however,  as  neither  could  induce  the  other  to  go  and  see  the  object 
of  its  admiration,  without  pledging  itself  to  a  counter-visit,  it 
was  arranged  that  at  any  rate  my  sisters  and  Miss  Evans  should 
be  driven  over  to  see  The  Retreat,  and  I  might  sit  on  the  box; 
after  which,  if  they  condemned  the  house  unanimously  my  father 
would  consent  to  inspect  the  Laurels,  as  the  Highgate  house  was 
called. 

But  his  visit  never  came  off.  For  Miss  Evans,  having  seen 
The  Retreat  and  decided- in  her  own  mind  that  it  would  suit  her 
down  to  the  ground,  became  almost  hysterically  impressed  with  the 
hardships  my  father  would  have  to  undergo,  travelling  daily  twice 
over  the  distance  between  Highgate  and  Somerset  House.  She  had 
laid  a  very  marked  stress,  the  evening  before,  on  the  fact  that  this 
distance  was  the  only  blot  on  the  other  house's  scutcheon,  otherwise 
flawless.  I  suppose  I  had  an  unsuspicious  soul  in  those  days,  for 
I  never  saw  anything  in  Helen  Evans's  growing  consideration  for 
my  father,  except  indeed  that  it  redeemed  other  faults  I  ascribed 
to  her.  And  I  am  sure  my  father  saw  nothing.  However,  she  began 


132  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

dawning  upon  me  a  little  later.  For  the  time  being,  her  change  of 
front  about  the  house  almost  made  me  forgive  her  other  short- 
comings. 

Then  follow  memories  of  many  councils,  waverings,  and  decisions, 
each  with  its  affix  of  my  father's  face  perplexed  and  anxious,  like  a 
seal  on  a  document.  Then  a  final  visit  of  mine  with  him  to  The 
Retreat;  and  then  the  die  was  cast.  We  were  to  leave  the  old 
home  and  make  new  lives  in  a  new  one,  for  worse  or  better,  as  might 
be.  I  became  alive  to  the  fact  that  the  joys  of  house-hunting, 
choosing  of  wall-papers,  ingenious  accommodations  of  old  furni- 
ture and  extravagant  purchases  of  new,  cannot  be  indulged  in 
without  their  counter-sorrow  of  the  old  domicile  forsaken. 

As  van  after  van  of  goods  departed  from  Mecklenburg  Square, 
each  one  leaving  behind  it  its  contribution  of  barren  floor  and 
vacant  wall,  whose  echoes  had  been  dormant  for  twenty  years,  and 
now  revived  to  startle  us,  the  sadness  of  its  desertion  after  all  those 
years  of  service  wound  itself  about  my  heart,  and  I  found  myself 
appealing  to  my  sex  to  protect  me  against  a  choking  sensation  in 
the  throat — an  experience  I  ascribed  to  sisters  and  suchlike,  which 
I  should  no  doubt  have  called  mawkish  sentimentalism  if  that 
valuable  phrase  had  formed  part  of  my  vocabulary.  Looking  back 
now,  and  communing  together,  my  Self  and  I  have  agreed  to  dis- 
cern in  it  the  evidence  that  a  sort  of  development  had  germinated ; 
and  to  set  some  store  by  the  fact,  small  as  it  is,  that  I  blew  my  nose 
about  the  discovery  of  this  sensation,  having  no  cold  to  warrant  my 
doing  so,  more  than  once.  Manhood  protested,  but  was  I  not  a 
boy? 

In  due  course  the  last  van's  greed  was  satiated,  and  things  my 
sisters  had  prayed  might  be  overlooked  stuffed  into  it  by  a  mis- 
taken enthusiasm  to  be  sure  that  nothing  was  left  behind.  The 
owner  of  the  van — whose  name  may  have  been  Satterthwaite,  as  his 
card — after  describing  his  resources  and  adding  the  brief  remark, 
"  Removals,"  enforced  the  words,  "  Personal  attention  to  every- 
thing," by  a  pictorial  hand  with  a  cuff,  pointing  at  them — took  it 
very  much  to  heart  that  my  father  would  not  allow  him  to  remove 
certain  old  boxes  in  what  I  have  called  the  Chemistry  Room.  They 
included  the  celebrated  box  which  contained  the  Heliconides,  and 
others  which  had  also  been  opened  more  than  once,  but  always  with 
the  same  result,  that  despair — despair  of  ever  finding  appreciators 
for  their  contents — repacked  them  after  a  brief  examination,  and 
called  out  for  hot  water  to  wash  its  hands. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  remember  the  first  exploration  of  these 
boxes  more  clearly  now  than  I  remember  being  able  to  recall  it 


THE  NAEKATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  133 

on  any  subsequent  occasion.  When  my  father,  at  the  dismantling 
of  the  drawing-room,  captured  the  Chinese  Buddha  and  some  other 
things  which  had  been  brought  down  from  them,  saying  that  Free- 
man must  do  the  repacking  because  he  took  them  out,  the  discovery 
of  the  vases  came  back  to  me — I  am  sure  of  it — less  clearly  than 
it  does  now,  as  I  lie  here  letting  the  past  mix  itself  with  the 
sounds  of  life  without,  but  putting  no  stress  on  Memory,  lest  some 
spurious  Mnemosyne  should  slip  in  and  take  her  place.  Recollec- 
tion goes  to  sleep  briskly  in  childhood  and  sleeps  sound.  I  awak- 
ened mine  then  with  an  effort,  to  bring  back  that  day  seven  years 
earlier,  when  Pandora's  box  let  the  Heliconides  loose  upon  us,  and 
it  remained  drowsy.  It  is  more  wakeful  now,  to  my  thinking.  But 
I  may  be  mistaken. 

Anyhow,  Mr.  Freeman  recollected.  If  there  was  a  scrap  of 
noosepaper  'andy,  he  would  undertake  to  repack  these  so  that  the 
Queen  herself  could  do  no  better  and  you  wouldn't  think  they'd 
ever  been  took  out.  He  often  referred  to  the  Throne  as  a  standard 
climax,  to  add  emphasis  to  achievement  by  imputing  to  her 
Majesty  inability,  though  Royal,  to  outshine  it.  He  was  removing 
the  Buddha  upstairs,  when  he  was  held  up — cut  off  short — by  Miss 
Evans,  who  presently  received  the  moral  support  of  Ellen  and 
Roberta,  to  counterpoise  my  father's  confirmation  from  below  of 
Mr.  Freeman's  report  of  his  instructions  as  to  the  disposal  of  the 
Chinese  affair,  as  his  scorn  termed  it.  "  'Wot  the  guv'nor  said 
was  to  re-pack-as-before,  or  on  sim'lar  lines.  As  directed,  so  I 
done.  I  don't  hargue." 

The  ladies  did  argue,  and  over-ruled  my  father,  Mr.  Freeman 
awaiting  decision  with  a  stolid  self -subordination  that  silently  con- 
demned all  handling  of  the  case  but  his  own,  reserved.  He  ac- 
cepted the  outcome  with : — "  Very  well  then,  that's  to  be  'eld  to ! 
This  here  goes  back  to  the  van,  the  others  goes  in  the  box."  For  my 
father  had  compromised  with  his  conscience,  which  had  prompted 
him  to  forestall  a  possible  outbreak  of  Settlement  from  my  Uncle 
Francis  by  putting  back  in  the  box  all  that  came  out  of  it,  and 
leaving  it  locked  up  to  be  settlementeered  at  pleasure  when  he 
handed  the  house  over  to  that  impracticable  trustee.  So  Mr. 
Freeman  reinstated  the  other  contents,  and  my  father  locked  the 
door  of  the  Chemistry  Room  to  baffle  Satterthwaite,  with  whom  no 
mere  instructions  had  any  weight  at  all  when  he  was,  so  to  speak, 
on  the  war-path;  by  which  I  mean  at  such  times  as  he  was  strain- 
ing after  his  high  ideal  of  not  letting  nothing  get  left  behind. 

I  remember  well  the  last  few  minutes,  after  my  sisters  and  Mi?? 
Evans  had  departed  for  Chelsea,  where  Varnish  and  Gracey  awaited 


'134  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

them,  when  Satterthwaite  and  his  myrmidons,  husky  and  beery  in 
the  twilight — for  the  September  day  was  wearing  out — consented  to 
relinquish  them  goods  in  the  top  attic,  to  admit  reluctantly  that 
in  course  the  Governor  knew  best  if  you  came  to  that,  ad  to  go. 
Then  my  father  and  I  were  left  alone,  to  say  farewell.  For  me, 
farewell  to  mere  childhood;  such  an  easy  parting  in  view  of  the 
coming  years,  with  an  insignificant  past  almost  slightingly  flung 
aside  to  welcome  the  resplendent  life  ahead — all  its  glories  taken 
for  granted!  For  him,  farewell  to  the  house  he  entered,  a  happy 
bridegroom,  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 

'*  Xow,  Master  Eustace  John!"  said  he,  with  resolute  cheerful- 
ness. "  One  more  look  from  top  to  bottom,  to  see  all  clear  and 
nothing  on  fire,  and  then  off  we  go !  " 

"All  right,  Pater!"  said  I.  I  hope  I  understood  a  little — was 
not  entirely  opaque.  I  didn't  feel  at  all  confident  about  it. 

The  garrets  were  not  on  fire,  clearly.  So  far  good.  My  father 
opened  the  door  of  the  Chemistry  Room,  glanced  in,  and  relocked 
it.  As  I  recall  now,  quite  plainly,  this  last  peep  into  my  old  den, 
I  wonder  why,  so  many  faces  of  friends  and  kin  having  vanished 
from  me  in  my  long  life,  I  should  so  often  forget  outright,  when 
and  where  they  vanished.  Why  have  I  lost  them,  when  I  have 
kept  the  Chemistry  Room?  Memory  laughs  at  my  attempts  to 
understand  her. 

The  next  floor  below  was  not  on  fire,  neither.  In  one  of  the 
rooms,  the  nursery  that  seems  to  me  still  the  nursery  of  all  nurs- 
eries, though  other  rooms  elsewhere  usurped  the  name  to  my  knowl- 
edge, there  lay  on  the  floor  Gracey's  doll  that  dropped  behind  the 
wardrobe  nine  years  ago,  and  had  been  choking  unrescued  in 
accumulating  dust  ever  since.  I  did  not  know  it  at  first,  it  seemed 
so  small.  I  remembered  a  doll  as  long  as  my  arm.  It  was  not 
so  very  much  longer  than  my  hand  now.  I  wrapped  it  in  a  piece  of 
green  paper  that  was  at  large,  and  secured  it,  conceiving  it 
humorous  to  carry  it  to  Gracey  and  offer  it  to  her  for  readoption. 
What  reinforces  this  recollection  is  that  when  Gracey  died  eight- 
een years  later,  this  doll  was  found  among  her  leavings  in  the  self- 
same green  paper,  on  which  was  written  the  name  it  had  been 
baptized  by,  and  an  inscription : — "  Florindia.  Brought  away  by 
Jackey  from  dear  Mecklenburg  Square,  Sept.  25,  1853." 

Neither  was  the  floor  beneath  on  fire.  Seeing  that  my  father 
checked  each  floor  off  in  this  way,  as  we  left  it,  I  do  so  too.  His 
voice  fell,  but  he  said  it  nevertheless  as  we  ended  up  the  sleeping 
rooms  with  the  one  my  mother  had  died  in.  Then  came  his  own 
room  and  the  drawing-room,  neither  a  prey  to  the  flames,  but  each 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  135 

the  home  of  unaccustomed  unnatural  echoes,  and  stamped  upon  its 
walls  the  grisly  stencillings  of  light,  obscured  by  furniture  and 
pictures,  on  a  flock  paper  whose  colours  had  fled  in  darkness — 
a  distinguished  paper  that  once  was  new !  And  now  I  know  how 
my  father's  mind  was  going  back  to  the  days  of  its  glory;  thinking 
perhaps,  as  I  have  done  since  in  a  like  case,  how  hard  it  is  that  wall- 
paper must  see  carpet  and  curtain  go,  that  it  started  so  bravely 
neek-and-neck  with,  and  be  left  to  fate;  perhaps  not  even  cleaned 
with  bread,  but  stripped  by  unfeeling  hands,  and  taken  away  in  a 
builder's  rubbish-cart,  because  the  Dust  won't  countenance  it,  to 
the  nearest  shoot  that  money  will  bribe  to  accept  it. 

My  father  finished  his  inspection  of  the  house  so  conscientiously, 
that  he  was  not  content  without  glancing  into  the  cellars.  Evi- 
dently, nothing  was  on  fire.  He  added  to  a  verdict  to  this  effect, 
that  it  was  as  well  to  do  it  thoroughly  while  we  were  about  it ;  and 
then  seemed,  with  a  sigh,  to  make  up  his  mind  to  go — to  face  the 
wrench  of  actual  last  departure.  I  threw  the  street-door  wide 
open,  letting  the  last  afterglow  of  the  sunset  in  on  the  panelled 
partition  that  enclosed  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  then  something 
caught  my  father's  eye,  as  he  paused  to  brush  a  cellar-soil  from 
his  sleeve.  "  What's  that?"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  angle  of  the 
skirting. 

"Only  a  hole,"  said  I. 

"  Only  a  hole ! "  said  my  father.  "  The  crater  of  Mount  Etna 
is  only  a  hole.  However,  this  isn't  quite  so  big,  certainly.  I  never 
saw  this  before.  How's  that  ?  " 

I  volunteered  an  explanation,  which  I  believe  was  unnecessary, 
as  the  thing  was  obvious.  The  base  of  the  skirting  had  been  slotted 
by  some  former  tenant,  for  no  purpose  that  we  could  see,  and  to 
conceal  the  slot  the  oil  cloth  on  the  hall-floor  had  been  cut  full 
and  turned  up  against  the  skirting  over  half-an-inch.  It  had  been 
left  undisturbed  whenever  the  woodwork  was  repainted — for  no 
one  ever  disturbs  oilcloth — and  now  a  straight  line  of  many  coats 
of  paint  showed  where  it  had  come  away. 

"  Put  your  finger  in,  Jackey,"  said  my  father.  "  Exercise  due 
caution  and  don't  scratch  it  with  nails.  See  how  deep  back  it 
goes."  I  did  so  promptly,  scorning  caution,  and  showed  the  depth 
on  my  finger.  "  What's  behind  ?  "  said  my  father. 

"Wood,"  said  I,  confidently.  And  I  was  right;  for  an  overhead 
cupboard  had  been  contrived  in  the  kitchen  stair-flight,  and  I  had 
touched  the  side  of  it.  I  jumped  up  and  saw  that  this  cupboard  was 
visible  through  an  opening  in  the  panel  above  the  slot.  The  re- 
moval of  a  box  that  we  used  to  call  the  Private  Post  Office  was 


136  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

responsible  for  this,  somehow,  but  I  did  not  understand  why  even 
Satterthwaite's  enthusiasm  should  have  carried  away  part  of  the 
panel,  till  my  father  explained  it  afterwards. 

The  box  had,  when  first  fixed,  been  found  to  project  awkwardly 
over  the  hall  table  where  trays  paused — for  in  those  days  lifts 
were  not  so  common  as  now — and  had  been  set  back  into  the 
panelling,  so  that  the  cupboard  side  had  been  its  back,  its  own 
having  been  cancelled  to  make  space. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  young  man,  and  allow  your  seniors  to  come,"  said 
my  father.  He  tried  to  get  his  stick  into  the  slot  between  the 
cupboard  and  the  perforated  panel,  but  it  was  too  thick.  I  saw 
his  object  and  with  juvenile  sharpness  hit  on  a  device.  I  folded  a 
piece  of  thick  brown  paper  that  had  come  out  in  the  cold  from 
under  the  dining-room  carpet,  and  thrust  it  down  the  narrow  slot, 
working  it  up  and  down. 

"  Now  feel  again,"  said  my  father.    And  I  felt  again. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  feel?  " 

"  There's  a  stiff  corner,"  said  I.  "  It's  an  envelope.  I  can't  get 
it  out." 

"  Look  here,  Master  Jackey."  said  my  father,  with  interest  grow- 
ing in  his  voice,  "  you  run  round  to  Cornick  the  carpenter's  and  tell 
him  to  come  at  once,  whether  he's  at  supper  or  not.  And  bring  his 
tools." 

"  Just  let  me  have  another  try,"  said  I.  "  With  your  knife  with 
the  corkscrew  on  it."  He  let  me  have  my  way;  and  with  this 
corkscrew,  which  opened  like  a  blade,  lengthwise,  I  managed  to 
extract  a  letter  through  the  slot.  It  rumpled,  but  it  came.  I 
handed  it  to  my  father,  who  took  it  saying: — "  Any  more?  "  It  was 
too  dark  where  we  were,  to  read  the  writing.  I  extracted  a  second 
letter,  and  then,  as  no  exercise  of  my  brown  paper  slot-sweeper 
produced  a  third,  we  started  for  the  nearest  cabstand. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  what  had  happened.  The  Private 
Post  Office  had  been  a  depository  of  letters  for  the  Public  Post, 
to  be  carried  to  the  nearest  Office  by  Anybody,  next  time  Anybody 
went  out.  It  was  open  at  the  top;  so  that  Anybody,  when  he 
fished  out  its  contents,  might  easily  have  helped  a  letter  or  two 
into  the  slot  below,  provided  that  an  accommodating  rift  existed 
in  the  box-floor  above  it.  There  must  have  been  such  a  rift — 
else  matter  passed  through  matter.  Therefore,  there  was  such  a 
rift.  Perhaps  the  box-floor  did  not  touch  the  cupboard. 

I  can  understand  now  why  my  father  took  this  discovery  so  easily 
at  the  moment.  These  two  letters  were  not  lost  letters  that  had 
never  reached  their  destiny,  in  which  case  some  awkward  revela- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  137 

tion  might  have  been  in  store  for  him.  They  were  from,  not  to, 
inmates  of  the  house,  and  to  my  thinking  that  made  the  whole 
difference.  They  had  missed  being  posted  every  day  for  twenty 
years  or  so — that  was  all ! 

I  was  so  undisturbed  by  this  incident  that  I  did  not  credit  it 
with  any  share  in  my  father's  whiteness,  and  almost  tremulousness, 
as  \ve  rode  home — for  now  The  Retreat  was  to  be  home — nor  with 
the  fact  that  after  we  arrived  I  heard  through  a  thickness  of  soap- 
suds, as  I  cleared  off  the  last  dirt  Mecklenburg  Square  was  ever  to 
bestow  on  me,  an  inquiry  for  brandy  for  Papa,  who  seemed  quite 
dead  with  fatigue,  counter-ordered  by  his  own  voice  saying: — 
"  No — no !  I  shall  be  all  right.  No  brandy !  "  I  put  everything 
down  to  the  mere  strain  and  stress  of  the  day,  except  what  my  crude 
perceptions  detected  as  emotion — not  a  large  fraction. 

Perhaps  if  we  had  not  met  Nebuchadnezzar  round  the  corner,  I 
should  have  been  in  better  form  for  taking  notice.  As  it  was,  we 
boys  were  deep  in  conversation  at  the  moment  when  my  father 
first  read  the  directions  of  these  letters  by  the  light  of  a  street-lamp. 
It  was  after  that  though,  not  before,  that  I  became  aware  how 
white  he  had  become. 

One  of  these  letters  my  father  returned  unopened  to  its  writer, 
Varnish,  who  showed  it  to  me.  It  was  to  her  sister,  and  in  it 
I  read  that  the  baby  was  a  beautiful  child  and  was  to  be  called 
Ellen;  the  King  was  going  to  open  the  "  New  Parliament  House  "; 
and  Master  had  spoke  very  serious  to  Mr.  Freeman,  who  had 
promised  to  become  "  a  teetotaller/'  This  last  item  fixes  no  date, 
because  "  The  Man's "  promises  of  total  abstinence  were  of  all 
dates;  but  the  other  two  point  to  the  year  1832.  Varnish  had 
only  dated  her  letter  January  21. 

Gracey  was  inquisitive  about  it,  and  asked — was  it  an  old  letter 
too?  My  father  replied: — "Yes,  yes — older — older!  But  it  was 
nothing.  And  the  person  it  was  written  to  is  dead,  ages  ago." 

So  Gracey  had  to  suppress  her  curiosity  to  know  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  STORY 

Is  it  not  Browning  who  tells  us  that  the  charm  and  beauty  of 
youth  are  given  us  to  hide  the  crudeness  of  the  spirit  in  its  early 
years  of  growth,  that  were  we  to  look  deeper  into  those  frank  and 
innocent  eyes  and  read  the  minds  of  the  sweet  angelic  looking 
boys  and  girls  of  our  acquaintance,  we  should  find  ignorance,  yes ! 
but  ignorance  alone  that  stood  between  them  and  the  ideals  of  the 
worst  of  the  Roman  Emperors.  If  you  doubt  this  statement  just 
take  the  spirit  of  any  vigorous  baby  you  are  acquainted  with,  and 
transfer  it  into  the  body  of  an  elderly  middle-aged  friend  of 
yours,  and  you  would  soon  see  that  Browning  knew  what  he  was 
writing  about. 

Now  when  Mr.  Pascoe  found  that  unposted  letter  written  by  his 
girl  wife  twenty  years  previously,  and  directed  to  John  Emery, 
Esquire,  Cutch,  India,  he  would  have  acted  more  fairly  by  her,  and 
certainly  as  the  sequel  proved,  with  greater  advantage  to  himself, 
had  he  burnt  it  unread.  Jack  Emery  why,  of  course,  he  recollected 
him  perfectly  well  now.  A  handsome  young  fellow,  a  playmate  of 
Caecilia's  in  her  childhood!  Went  to  India,  accepted  an  appoint- 
ment in  a  bad  climate,  no  prospects  to  speak  of,  had  to  take  what 
turned  up,  and  later  on  married  a  begum.  But  what  on  earth 
could  Csecilia  have  been  writing  to  him  about !  And  Mr.  Pascoe 
broke  open  the  sealed  envelope  and  unfolding  the  yellowing  pages, 
read  as  follows: 

JACK, 

I  am  married !  It  is  done!  And  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  be  writing 
to  you  at  all,  but  I  said  I  would  and  I  shall  keep  my  promise.  And 
you  must  keep  yours  my  poor,  dear,  darling  Jack,  and  not  answer 
this  letter,  and  never,  never  write  to  me,  or  see  me  again.  I  shall 
always  love  you  deep  clown  in  my  heart,  and  don't  blame  me,  dear- 
est old  Jack,  papa  did  it !  He  simply  ordered  me  to  give  you  up. 
I  had  no  choice.  I  could  not  do  any  differently.  You  know  how 
it  all  was,  you  know  I  could  not  help  it! 

I  am  getting  on  very  happily  with  Nat  Pascoe,  he  is  a  very  good 
fellow,  but  he  is  not  you,  that  is  all  I  have  against  him.  And  I 

138 


THE  STORY  139 

have  such  a  lovely  home,  so  now  you  must  forget  me,  my  poor  old 
Jack,  and  find  a  nice  rich  bride  and  be  happy  with  her. 
Yours  still,  but  for  the  last  time  remember, 

Your  loving  CECILIA. 

And  yet  in  those  far-away  days  of  their  courtship,  Caecilia  had 
kissed  Nathaniel  Pascoe  on  the  lips  and  sworn  to  him  that  he  was 
her  first  and  only  love!  .  .  .  And  with  the  reading  of  that  letter 
the  heart-whole  allegiance  of  twenty  long  years  snapped  and  broke ! 

Yet  all  the  same  the  unfortunate  Ca?cilia  was  the  mother  of 
his  children  and  had  been  a  good  and  faithful  wife  to  him.  Had 
she  herself  in  the  days  of  her  maturity  unearthed  the  long  forgot- 
ten letter,  the  chances  are  she  would  have  laughed  over  that  episode 
of  boy  and  girl  love,  and  forgiven  herself  her  act  of  duplicity 
on  the  score  of  her  youth  and  immaturity. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  STORY 

THE  garden  of  The  Retreat  was  very  pleasant  on  that  fine 
October  morning,  so  thought  Miss  Evans  as  she  wandered  round 
with  her  basket  and  pruning  scissors,  intent  on  a  little  amateur 
gardening;  so  far  there  had  been  no  frosts  and  the  roses  still 
lingered  on,  great  bushes  of  blue  asters,  and  a  few  rich  coloured 
chrysanthemums  glowed  brightly  in  the  morning  sun,  yes  it  was 
altogether  restful  and  refreshing. 

The  move  from  Mecklenburg  Square  had  been  successfully 
accomplished,  and  the  family  had  settled  down  in  their  new 
home,  welcoming  the  change  of  surroundings  and  trusting  to 
it,  and  the  lapse  of  time  to  soften  the  painful  memory  of  their 
mother's  tragic  end. 

Mr.  Pascoe  had  resumed  his  duties  at  Somerset  House  and 
was  always  absent  till  the  evening,  Jackey  was  back  at  school 
again,  the  two  elder  girls  went  their  own  independent  ways  re- 
senting any  interference  on  the  part  of  Miss  Evans,  Gracey  alone 
justifying  the  presence  of  a  governess  in  the  house,  by  the  few 
hours  devoted  daily  to  her  studies  under  Miss  Evans's  tutelage. 

Roberta's  strong  affection  for  Helen  Evans  had  cooled  down 
perceptibly,  and  though  they  still  shared  the  same  room,  the 
glamour  of  the  friendship  had  died  away,  and  had  Roberta  been 
older,  and  better  able  to  analyze  her  feelings  towards  her  friend, 
she  would  have  summed  them  up  in  the  one  word  "  distrust," 
though  why  she  distrusted  her  she  could  not  have  said. 

On  this  particular  morning  Helen  Evans  was  feeling  satis- 
fied and  fairly  content  with  her  position.  She  felt  that  each 
day  as  it  passed  made  her  more  and  more  indispensable  to  the 
master  of  the  house.  Ellen's  attempts  at  performing  the  duties 
of  mistress  of  the  household,  though  backed  energetically  by  the 
faithful  Varnish,  were  never  very  successful,  and  her  failures 
were  skilfully  commented  on  by  Miss  Evans  in  the  hearing  of 
her  father,  with  the  result  that  Mr.  Pascoe  entertained  a  grow- 
ing admiration  for  Helen's  powers  as  a  housekeeper. 

As  for  Roberta,  her  passion  for  private  theatricals  which  she 
shared  with  her  friends,  the  Graypers,  caused  Miss  Evans,  so  she 
told  Mr.  Pascoe,  great  anxiety.  But  what  could  she  do?  She 
had  no  real  authority.  Mr.  Pascoe  ought  positively  to  put  his 

140 


THE  STORY  141 

foot  down  and  stop  this  craze  for  perpetual  acting.  What  Miss 
Evans  feared  was,  that  a  girl  like  Roberta,  with  no  mother  to 
look  after  her,  might  so  easily  drift  on  to  the  stage.  And  her 
father,  who  had  never  seen  his  daughter  act,  or  he  would  have 
been  completely  reassured  on  that  score,  was  made  very  uneasy, 
and  implored  Miss  Evans  to  do  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  pre- 
vent such  a  catastrophe  taking  place.  He  could  not  bear  the 
idea,  he  said,  of  Roberta  becoming  a  professional  actress !  It 
would  never  do  at  all !  Something  must  be  done  to  stop  it !  Miss 
Evans  was  absolutely  right  there;  in  fact,  she  always  was  right 
about  everything,  a  perfectly  invaluable  woman,  so  thought  Mr. 
Pascoe.  On  this  particular  autumn  morning  Helen  Evans  was 
feeling  decidedly  pleased  with  herself.  Her  navy  blue  morn- 
ing dress  was  very  fresh  and  becoming.  Her  beautiful  white 
hands  were  carefully  protected  by  leather  gardening  gloves,  and 
as  she  clipped  away  at  the  dead  leaves  on  the  rose  bushes  her 
thoughts  ran  riot.  Of  course,  Mr.  Pascoe  was  no  longer  the  in- 
cipient millionaire  with  the  golden  doors  of  wealth  opening  wide 
before  him.  But,  after  all,  it  was  very  much  not  poverty,  as 
Miss  Evans  knew  it.  No,  decidedly,  it  was  not  poverty!  With 
a  brougham  and  a  horse  and  a  coachman  and  stables,  and  then 
this  very  charming  Chelsea  house  with  its  big  garden,  and  a 
well  set-up  household  and  servants  to  wait  upon  one!  Things 
certainly  might  be  worse,  and  after  all,  what  had  happened  once 
might  it  not  happen  again?  Fortunes  went  up  and  down,  and 
occasionally  down  and  up,  especially,  might  this  be  looked  for 
with  any  one  like  Mr.  Pascoe,  who  had  shown  such  a  distinct 
genius  for  money-making;  no,  it  was  not  so  bad,  after  all!  As 
for  that!  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  that  episode!  .  .  .  She  was  safe  there. 
No  one  had  ever  so  much  as  asked  her  a  single  question  on  the  sub- 
ject. She  was  not  implicated  in  any  way!  Roberta  knew  that 
she  had  just  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Pascoe's  room 
on  her  way  downstairs,  and  that  was  all.  No  one  in  the  house- 
hold had  ever  grasped  the  fact  that  she  had  even  done  that.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes,  she  and  Roberta  had  been  out  of  the 
house  during  the  whole  time  of  the  occurrence — yes,  she  was  per- 
fectly safe!  She  had  absolutely  nothing  to  fear!  She  could 
put  her  mind  at  rest.  And  Miss  Evans's  large,  dark  eyes  glanced 
up  at  the  pretty  house  with  its  vine-covered  walls — decidedly  a 
nice  house  to  be  mistress  of! 

At  an  upper  window  stood  Varnish  gazing  intently  at  the  gover- 
ness, and  as  their  eyes  met  Helen  Evans  shivered  in  the  sun- 
shine. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

OUR  flitting  was  just  before  Michaelmas,  1853,  so  that  events 
had  travelled  very  fast  since  the  first  discovery  of  The  Retreat 
by  Cooky  and  myself  in  the  early  summer.  That  any  builder  who 
undertook  to  complete  in  a  month  shouW  do  so  in  six  weeks  shows 
that  the  repainting  and  papering  that  was  decided  on  was  very 
plain  sailing,  without  the  ghost  of  a  hitch.  No  doubt,  the  good 
condition  the  house  was  left  in,  made  the  work  particularly  easy. 
Though  my  father's  lease  was  from  September,  old  Mr.  Ward- 
roper  gave  up  possession  in  July,  and  all  his  belongings  were  re- 
moved to  make  way  for  white  lead  and  boiled  oil  and  trestles;  and, 
as  soon  as  redecoration  subsided  internally,  for  our  furniture  to 
quarrel  for  floor-space  among  itselves — for  furniture  is  intrinsi- 
cally plural — our  turn  came.  Outside  the  house  three  good  coats 
of  stone  colour  on  all  work  previously  painted,  and  a  dazzling  green 
on  the  woodwork  of  the  veranda  and  the  iron  palings  and  front 
gate  took  their  own  time  about  drying,  so  as  to  favour  the  fourth 
good  coat.  And  were  so  long  over  it  that  it  looked  as  if  the 
builder  had  not  been  taken  into  the  confidence  of  boiled  oil  before 
he  submitted  his  estimate. 

None  of  us  saw  the  old  tenant  again  at  that  time.  The  old 
boy  had  screwed  himself  up  to  the  wrench  of  moving,  as  soon 
as  his  granddaughter,  a  widow  lady  with  one  child,  could  arrange 
to  take  him  in.  When  I  saw  him  again,  some  two  years  later, 
he  looked  to  be  vanishing,  as  some  very  old  folks  do — just  as  though 
they  might  die  of  a  rough  handshake,  or  a  loud  voice  too  near 
them.  But,  like  many  another,  he  was  stronger  than  he  looked, 
and  lived  for  many  years  after  that. 

My  father  was  interviewed  by  a  grandson-in-law,  who  seemed 
to  have  the  management  of  affairs,  to  settle  the  transfer  of  the 
remainder  lease.  He  looked  like  my  idea  of  a  betting  man — a 
fairly  accurate  idea  as  I  have  since  found — when  I  saw  him  on 
the  steps  at  Mecklenburg  Square  talking  to  my  father  after  an 
interview  about  the  lease.  I  understood,  however,  that  he  was  "  in 
the  Law."  somewhere  undefined.  I  was  coming  home  from  an 
exhilarating  day  spent  chiefly  on  the  water  at  the  Welsh  Harp, 

142 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  143 

and  only  came  in  for  the  fag  end  of  the  conversation.  The  visitor 
was  speaking. 

"  The  reason  the  old  man  talks  about  Mecklenburg  Square  is 
that  my  wife's  sister,  Mrs.  Addison,  lived  there  with  her  husband. 
Couldn't  say  anything  about  which  house.  Never  saw  him.  Wasn't 
in  England.  Don't  know  anything  about  him." 

"  Mrs.  Addison  is  a  widow  ?  " 

"  B'leeve  so — yes,  certainly !  Widow  of  course.  Never  saw 
her  husband.  .  .  .  Well,  you  see,  I  Only  married  my  present  wife 
three  years  ago,  and  then  Mrs.  Addison  was  a  widow.  Wife's 
family !  That  sort  of  thing." 

My  father  seemed  to  accept  this  as  lucid,  and  expressed  no 
surprise  at  this  gentleman's  unreadiness  in  family  history.  But 
he  said  he  could  not  remember  any  Addison  in  the  Square,  and  it 
was  funny,  because  he  thought  he  had  known  the  names  of  all  the 
people  who  had  left  the  Square  in  his  time.  There  had  only  been 
Partridge  and  Fraser  and  Strachan.  And  Addison  was  neither 
Partridge  nor  Fraser  nor  Strachan.  It  only  showed  how  little 
\ve  knew  about  our  neighbours.  The  gentleman  said,  taciturnly, 
yes,  it  showed  that.  And  he  would  have  the  lease  ready  by  Monday. 
And  he  thought  it  was  working  up  for  a  thunderstorm,  but  he  had 
an  umbrella.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Pascoe! 

My  father  wouldn't  let  this  undiscovered  ex-neighbour  of  ours 
alone,  catechizing  my  sisters  and  Varnish  and  Miss  Evans  as  to 
their  memories  of  bygone  residents.  But  nobody  had  ever  heard 
of  Addison.  Mr.  Mapleson  held  out  hopes,  being  confident  that 
the  party  had  been  misled  by  the  similarity  of  the  name  of  the 
people  at  number  twelve,  which  he  had  forgotten,  himself.  It 
turned  out  to  have  been  Endicott,  so  from  no  point  of  view  was 
Mr.  Mapleson  illuminating. 

Our  retention  of  the  brougham,  and  its  establishment  in  the 
coachhouse  at  The  Retreat  was  so  mixed  up  with  the  relations  of 
my  father  with  his  creditors  that  I  never  mastered  the  subject 
properly.  I  always  saw  in  the  huge  sums  that  floated  about  the 
winding-up  of  that  Bank,  great  distant  abstraction  that  could 
never  dirty  their  hands  with  such  small  matters  as  furniture  and 
broughams.  They  were  to  me  like  high  tension  currents  to  the 
electricians,  and  I  had  had  no  experience  of  their  conversion  to 
low  tension,  and  development  of  what  Mr.  Cranium  called  a 
cataballative  quality.  I  find  I  remember  "  Headlong  Hall ";  though 
I  have  not  seen  it  for  half  a  century.  Would  it  amuse  me  now, 
I  wonder? 


144  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  suppose  the  fact  to  have  been — only  I  don't  understand  these 
things  and  there  is  no  one  here  who  does,  that  I  know  of — that 
in  the  early  days  of  a  winding-up  which  took  its  time,  the  suf- 
ferers were  the  depositors  and  the  writers  or  holders  of  dishonoured 
cheques.  Mr.  Boethius  had  sold  all  his  shares  to  my  father,  so  he 
could  not  suffer.  Mr.  Tripp  had  changed  all  his  money  to  diamonds, 
hung  them  on  Mrs.  Tripp,  and  vanished;  so  he  was  safe.  Mr. 
MacCorquodale  was  safest  of  all — for  he  did  not  exist;  he  was  a 
name !  Enviable  man !  I  heard  the  expression  "  men  of  straw  " 
used  more  than  once  by  winders-up,  or  victims,  who  interviewed  my 
father  at  this  time,  and  later  experience  inclines  me  to  believe  that 
the  other  shareholders,  whoever  they  were,  were  meant.  My  father's 
assets,  claimable  by  the  creditors,  as  I  understand,  to  the  last 
farthing,  were  probably  their  only  piece  de  resistance. 

I  took  for  granted  the  sheets  of  figures  that  abounded  at  this 
date  as  correct — for  see  how  beautifully  written  they  were !  How 
could  such  ciphering  err?  And  where  such  very  large  sums  were 
being  written  down,  things  were  sure  to  come  out  all  right,  some- 
how. My  father  would  see  to  that.  So  I  really  never  knew  any- 
thing about  the  matter,  worth  knowing. 

Mere  surmise — by  a  veteran  without  a  document  to  refer  to — 
points  to  concessions  by  creditors  in  return  for  some  form  of  bond 
giving  them  a  claim  on  his  earnings.  It  was  desirable  that  he 
should  be  kept  going  as  long  as  possible,  to  earn  them;  and  the 
brougham  contributed  to  this,  obviously.  So  long  as  he  went  and 
came  every  day,  to  and  from  Somerset  House,  was  there  much 
balance  of  gain  in  any  substitute  for  the  brougham?  I  know  it 
was  our  only  luxury  in  the  days  that  followed,  unless  Miss  Evans 
was  one.  I  had  my  doubts  on  that  point. 

Still,  I  myself  believe  that  my  father  would  have  over-ruled  the 
brougham,  as  a  sheer  extravagance  for  people  in  our  position,  and 
perhaps  underlet  the  coachhouse,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Mapleson, 
the  impassive  young  man  with  two  identities,  one  of  which  I  came 
to  know  for  the  first  time  when  the  proximity  of  The  Retreat 
coachhouse  forced  its  inner  life  upon  us.  If  Mapleson  had  been 
Shiva  or  Vishnu,  his  two  Avatars  could  not  have  been  much  more 
unlike  each  other.  Mapleson  on  the  box,  with  conformity  oozing, 
one  might  say,  from  every  pore,  was  one  thing;  Mapleson  in  shirt 
sleeves,  with  pails,  in  the  stable-yard,  was  another. 

I  became  familiar  with  the  latter;  an  Avatar  which  in  its 
former  home  in  a  mews  had  been,  so  far  as  the  Square  was  con- 
cerned, little  better  than  discarnate.  It  opened  its  heart  to  me, 
as  far  as  the  hinges  would  allow  it  to  go,  in  the  intervals  of  at- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  145 

tacks  on  the  horse  with  a  currycomb.  I  inferred  from  what  I 
heard  that  Mr.  Mapleson  had  become  attached  to  the  family,  and 
would  not  be  happy  if  either  of  his  incarnations  came  to  an  end 
with  us,  though  reincarnate  elsewhere.  This  one  could  com- 
municate to  me  what  that  other  could  not  disclose  to  my  father, 
without  breach  of  discipline.  It  was  not  fond  of  change  and  was 
at  present  sooted.  It  recognized  the  fact,  nevertheless,  that  King's 
Road,  Chelsea,  could  not  pretend  to  hold  its  head  as  high  as 
Mecklenburg  Square,  and  instead  of  claiming  compensation  for 
loss  of  caste,  as  uncultured  greed  might  have  done,  generously 
hinted  that  under  the  circumstances  it  could  not  expect  the  same 
figure.  If  I  was  agreeable  to  do  so,  I  might  name  it  to  the  Governor 
that  it  was  prepared  to  take  less,  and  so  pave  the  way  to  an  under- 
standing. 

I  told  my  father  that  Thomas — a  name  that  seemed  to  me  war- 
ranted by  the  shirt  sleeves,  while  grande  tenue  on  a  box  called 
for  Mapleson — would  be  awfully  sorry  to  leave  us;  but  when  I 
came  to  ask  myself  how  Thomas  had  managed  to  express  his  affec- 
tion for  his  employer,  I  found  that,  strictly  speaking,  he  had 
never  done  anything  of  the  sort.  He  had  conveyed  the  idea  to 
me  by  vilipending  the  remainder  of  the  human  race,  as  employers; 
saying  that  he  knew  when  he  was  well  off,  and  that  there  was 
Very  little  dependence  to  be  put  on  everybody  else.  With  a  Gov- 
ernor like  my  father,  you  knew  where  you  were.  Further,  if  he 
might  make  so  bold,  there  were  a  many  ways  in  which  a  young  man 
might  be  useful  about  the  house — there  was  the  garden  for  instance 
— and  he  was  always  agreeable.  Besides,  he  thoroughly  understood 
poultry;  no  man  better. 

I  think  my  father  was  pleased  and  relieved  when  I  reported  to 
him  the  shirt  sleeve  Avatar's  appreciation  of  itself.  He  had  been 
contemplating  a  proposal  to  the  other  one,  embodying  the  same 
ideas,  all  but  the  poultry.  But  his  awe  of  that  august  being  had 
stood  in  the  way  of  his  making  it.  He  now  accepted  Thomas,  as 
an  intercessor  and  mediator  between  him  and  Mapleson. 

"  As  to  the  poultry,"  said  he,  "  I  hope  he  understands  their 
motives  and  impulses  better  than  I  do.  I  always  find  them  perplex- 
ing to  the  last  degree.  But  if  he  has  enough  influence  with  them  to 
persuade  them  to  postpone  certain  noises  they  know  how  to  make, 
until  a  reasonable  hour  in  the  morning — why,  fowls  by  all  means !  " 

So  we  had  fowls. 

When  I  made  that  last  expedition  to  The  Retreat,  and  measured 
its  decay  against  my  memory  of  its  past,  nothing  made  me  so  sad 


146  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

as  the  half-hearted  cluck  of  a  joyless  hen  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
bringing  back  as  it  did  the  controversies  that  raged  over  those 
fowls  of  ours — my  father's  frequent  resolutions  to  abolish  them — 
my  sisters  defence  of  their  position — the  different  estimate  of  the 
value  of  new-laid  eggs  by  sleepers  in  the  front  and  back  of  the 
house  respectively.  Was  I  all  wrong  in  thinking  that,  however 
much  too  soon  they  roused  me  on  summer  mornings,  their  intoler- 
able chorus,  as  my  father  called  it,  was  at  least  one  of  exultation 
— an  awkward  hymn  of  praise,  suppose  we  say  ?  Was  I  right  in  set- 
ting down  that  woe-begone  croak  of  their  successor,  fifty  years 
later,  as  an  ill-worded  lament  over  the  traditional  delicacies  of  a 
stable-yard,  handed  down  through  countless  broods  of  chicks,  ut- 
tered by  their  most  dilapidated  survivor?  Sound  and  smell  and 
taste  bring  back  what  sight  leaves  in  oblivion,  and  this  sound 
brought  back  those  summer  mornings,  and  the  leaf-flicker  of  the 
vine  across  my  window,  and  the  sparrows  in  it,  quarrelling  cheer- 
fully. And  myself,  and  my  youth,  and  my  unconsciousness  of  the 
things  to  be.  Then  I  turned  away  and  forgot  that  early  time,  to 
think  of  how  those  things  came  about,  and  what  they  made  me. 

I  am  told  that  now  nothing  is  left  of  the  old  house.  It  will  all  be 
a  residential  neighbourhood  soon,  with  maisonettes  at  the  best.  The 
indwellers  will  dream  undisturbed  through  the  early  daylight,  un- 
less passing  motors  hoot  into  their  dreams  and  murder  sleep.  The 
last  cock  will  have  crowed  its  farewell;  supposing,  that  is,  there  is 
one  still  left  to  crow.  Childless  couples — a  numerous  class  now- 
adays— will  find  room  enough  with  a  little  spirit  of  mutual  accom- 
modation in  a  cubic  area,  about  which  the  less  said  the  better.  It 
is  a  curious  thing  that  cubic  areas  are  so  small.  Yet  they  appear 
to  foster  rents  double  that  of  houses  where  they  are  unknown.  I 
sometimes  doubt  the  existence  of  one  in  Mecklenburg  Square.  No 
one  ever  tried  to  find  it,  certainly.  However,  we  had  no  bathroom 
there;  maisonettes  have  that  feather  in  their  cap.  The  child- 
less couples  can  always  have  a  bath,  granting  the  spirit  aforesaid. 
And  there  may  be  more  room  in  a  flat  than  one  thinks,  though  it 
appears  that  one  cannot  get  a  servant  to  stop  in  one.  I  heard  Miss 
Eusoll  saying  so  to  the  new  Parson,  or  rather  the  temporary  locum 
ten  ens  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carpenter.  He  is  a  great  big  man,  more 
like  a  sea-captain  than  a  parson,  but  I  like  his  voice.  It  travels 
•well,  without  grating  on  one.  His  name  is  neither  Cartwright  nor 
Mackintosh,  but  Turner. 

We  were  a  good-sized  family  for  the  house,  but  we  all  found  a 
corner  in  it  and  thought  ourselves  well  off.  There  was  room 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  147 

for  all  without  any  strain  on  mutual  accommodation.  The  size  of 
it  and  the  space  it  occupied  seemed  on  good  terms  with  one  another 
— although  indeed,  now  that  I  have  written  it,  I  have  my  doubts 
whether  that  means  anything.  Several  childless  couples  might 
have  lived  in  it  without  quarrelling,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Also,  that 
all  the  womankind  but  Gracey  and  Varnish  had  an  undercurrent  of 
belief  that  each  for  her  part  had  made  great  sacrifices  in  order  that 
the  others  might  live  in  palatial  luxury,  and  felt  therefrom  the 
satisfaction  of  conscious  generosity.  This  is  like  Gibbon,  but  then 
perhaps  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  Gibbon  would  have  said,  and  spiteful. 
Only  I  am  sure  Miss  Evans  deserved  it,  if  the  others  didn't,  as 
thoroughly  as  some  objects  of  Gibbon's  sarcasms  deserved  them. 

Varnish  never  made  a  secret  of  her  feelings  to  me,  and  at  this 
time  a  subacute  exasperation  against  Miss  Evans,  always  latent, 
began  to  take  a  more  defined  form.  I  was  too  young  at  first  to 
follow  her  ideas  closely;  an  older  mind  than  mine  would  have 
detected  her  apprehensions,  and  might  have  shared  them.  I  re- 
mained for  some  time  unimpressed,  ascribing  Varnish's  seeming 
acces  of  resentment  against  the  governess  to  its  ostensible  cause, 
and  suspecting  nothing  behind  it.  But  I  was  illuminated  in  the 
end,  and  I  remember  the  occasion. 

It  must  have  been  two  months  or  more  after  the  move,  for  there 
was  snow  on  the  ground,  when  Varnish  said  to  me,  at  one  of 
our  confidential  foregatherings  over  tea,  now  in  a  room  called 
the  pantry,  a  sort  of  lobby  of  the  kitchen : — "  It's  only  a  year, 
Master  Eustace,  since  your  dear  ma  was  took."  I  immediately 
became  absorbed  in  a  problem  that  vexed  me  greatly  then  and  has 
hung  heavily  upon  my  understanding  all  through  life — what  ought 
I  to  say  about  the  dead,  in  conversation  with  the  living?  Should 
I  respond  to  my  old  nurse  in  the  sacred  hopeful  tone,  the  dumb 
acquiescence  tone,  or  that  of  mere  lamentation,  with  passing  com- 
pliments to  the  departed?  I  was  not  qualified  for  the  first;  my 
education  had  been  neglected.  The  second — or  Greek  tone,  one 
might  say — would  have  seemed  un-Christian  to  Varnish.  I  had 
to  fall  back  on  the  third,  leaving  the  eulogiums  to  be  taken  for 
granted.  If  necessary,  Varnish  would  insert  them. 

I  must  have  taken  my  time  over  deciding,  if  Varnish's  speech 
that  escaped  my  attention  was  a  plausible  connecting  link  with 
what  followed.  For  when  I  had  muttered  what  seemed  fit  to  me,  I 
found  that  she  had  already  passed  to  some  phase  of  the  topic  that 
I  could  not  at  once  understand,  causing  me  to  say,  "  Why  shouldn't 
she?" — the  '"she"  I  referred  to  being  Miss  Helen  Evans. 

"  Why,  Master  Eustace,"  Varnish  answered,  "  if  not  artful,  no 


148  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

reason  at  all!  But  you  are  young  and  cannot  see  through.  Only 
.  .  .  Well! — you  ask  any  of  the  young  ladies,  and  go  by  them. 
I  could  wish  I  might  be  wrong." 

Gracey  came  into  the  room,  and  stood  by  the  fire.  "  What  about, 
Varnish  dear?"  said  she. 

I  volunteered  to  explain : — "  Why,  look  here,  Gracey,  Varnish 
says  Miss  Evans  oughtn't  to  button  the  Governor's  coat." 

"Does  she?"  said  Gracey,  emphatically,  meaning — did  Miss 
Evans  do  so? 

".There  you  see  now.  Master  Eustace,  your  sister's  nexrer  seen 
her  do  it!  What  did  I  tell  you  just  now  about  artfulness? " 

Gracey  qualified  what  her  emphasis  had  seemed  to  imply : — "  But 
really,  Varnish,  I  do  not  see  anything  in  that,  now  one  comes  to 
think  of  it.  I  buttoned  Nebuchadnezzar's  beautiful  new  fur  coat 
for  him  only  the  other  day,  on  purpose.  Why  shouldn't  I  ? "  I 
welcomed  this  precedent. 

But  Varnish  disallowed  it.  "  Because  you  are  two  children,  my 
dear.  Besides,  Master  Moss  is  a  Jew,  and  out  of  the  question." 

I  advanced  a  view  which  I  now  seriously  think  for  snobbishness 
of  conception,  vulgarity  of  expression,  and  inapplicability  to  its 
point,  is  without  a  parallel  in  the  records  of  bad  argument.  "  Isn't 
Miss  Evans  a  governess  and  out  of  the  question  ? "  said  I.  My 
inexperience  was  fructifying  on  the  subject. 

Neither  of  my  hearers  was  competent  to  overwhelm  me  with 
the  refutation  I  deserved.  Varnish  said  weakly : — "  Governesses 
are  not  Jews,  but  Christians,  Master  Eustace."  Gracey  entrenched 
her  position.  "You're  a  little  boy,  Jackey,  and  had  better  shut 
up,"  said  she.  Which  I  thought  unfair,  as  I  was  in  the  discussion, 
by  hypothesis.  She  added,  after  reflection : — "  I  suppose  Papa 
knows  best,  and  it's  his  concern,  anyhow!" 

I  felt  on  unsafe  ground.  After  all.  was  not  the  whole  thing 
outside  my  province?  I  remembered  that  all  the  evidence  had  not 
been  heard.  "  Varnish  said  more  things,"  said  I.  But  I  shrank 
from  further  responsibility. 

"What  did  you  say  more,  Varnish  dear?"  said  Gracey.  "Say 
it  again  for  me."  She  was  hugging  our  old  nurse,  persuasively, 
over  the  back  of  her  chair,  as  she  said  this. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Varnish,  "  I  shan't  say  another  word.  But 
there's  no  need,  for  any  one  can  see,  that  looks,  when  a  young 
person  is  layin'  herself  out.  and  when  she  isn't.  It  don't  depend  on 
any  telling  of  mine.  But  there,  the  Lord  be  praised,  that  is  where  it 
is,  and  a  deceitful  person  has  only  herself  to  blame,  come  what 
may ! "  I  believe  Varnish  was  already  repenting  of  having  talked 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  149 

so  openly  to  us  two  youngsters,  and  was  falling  back  on  an 
enigmatical  tone  as  a  safe  resource.  She  filled  out  obvious  blanks 
with  oracular  nods,  and  affected  absorption  in  the  problem  of 
whether  tea  would  go  round  for  a  second  cup,  without  draining 
the  pot.  You  should  never  do  that,  in  case  of  anybody  else.  I 
adopt  her  expression. 

"  But  I  say ! — what  humbug !  "  said  I,  fructifying — for  I  was 
sharp  enough.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  such  rot?  Fancy  Jemima  try- 
ing it  on  with  the  Governor!"  This  name,  Jemima,  was  a  con- 
fidential name  of  Miss  Evans,  seldom  used  outside  secret  con- 
claves of  Varnish,  Gracey,  and  myself.  It  was  founded  on  a  pas- 
sage in  Dickens.  "  Miss  J'mima  Ivins.  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivinses 
friend,  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivinses  friend's  young  man,"  are  to  be 
found  in  Sketches  by  Boz. 

"  If  she  only  buttons  his  coat "  began  Gracey,  who  seemed 

inclined  to  think  an  unjust  imputation  had  been  launched;  though 
she  may  also  have  felt  in  danger  of  throwing  stones  from  a  glass 
house,  after  her  own  coat-buttoning  escapade.  She  finished  her 
speech  in  another  key  altogether : — "  All  I  know  is  that  I  shall  but- 
ton Monty's  coat  as  often  as  I  like,  whether  or  no !  So  there !  " 

"  Till  you're  grown  up,  my  dear,"  said  Varnish. 

"I  can't  see  the  difference,"  said  Gracey.    "  A  coat's  a  coat!  " 

"  That  is  not  where  the  question  turns  on.  my  dear,"  said  Varnish, 
not  quite  without  pride  in  her  powers  of  expression.  "  The  coat  is 
only  one  way  round  and  no  one  knows  that  better  than  Miss 
Evans.  You  may  call  her  Jemima,  Master  Eustace,  but  the  thing 
is  the  same  or  similar.  And  put  it  how  you  may,  artfulness  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  and  nothing  but  artfulness." 

"I  say — look  here!"  said  I.  "I  want  it  put  out  in  language. 
What's  Jemima's  game?"  Then  I  lost  force  by  not  awaiting  a 
reply : — "  Because  she  won't  be  any  the  wiser,  if  it's  that !  "  I  think 
I  diluted  this  even  further,  by  saying  I  would  bet  anything  I  was 
right,  but  not  naming  the  odds;  so  that  my  offer  remained  the 
expression  of  a  pious  confidence  in  my  own  infallibility.  Varnish 
and  Gracey  may  have  felt  that  I  was  a  crude  exponent  of  my  own 
ideas,  for  they  proceeded  to  talk  over  my  head,  taking  no  notice 
of  my  occasional  marginal  notes.  Thereafter  the  conversation  ran 
thus: 

"  Your  pa,  my  dear,  knows  what  is  due  to  himself — no  one 
better,  so,  as  I  say,  it's  not  for  us!  But  if  you  come  to  seeing 
through,  all  I  say  is,  don't,  ask  me  what  I  think  of  any  person 
with  an  underhanded  countenance.  Looks  goes  for  nothing;  though 
Kiss  Evans  has  her  share,  I  willingly  admit.  But  what  I  look  at 


150  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

is  the  '  art ' '  — here  I  felt  perplexed  as  to  whether  Varnish  meant 
the  subtlety  of  the  lady  in  question,  or  the  metaphorical  seat  of 
good  and  bad  feeling — *'  and  her  deceitfulness  is  bore  out  by  her 
actions,  every  day." 

"But  she  only  buttoned  Papa's  coat!" 

"This  time,  my  dear,  yes!  But,  other  times,  a  hundred  things. 
Interference  in  what  does  not  concern.  For  if  Cook,  after  such  a 
many  years,  does  not  know  your  dear  papa's  likings,  who  can  pre- 
tend to  it?" 

"  Cook's  an  awful  fool  about  potatoes."  This  side-note  of  mine 
had  reference  to  a  perversity  of  Cook's,  which  sacrificed  the  allevia- 
tion of  cold  joints  by  baked  potatoes  in  their  skins,  to  the  serving  of 
these  vegetables  in  connection  with  hot  ones,  prematurely.  It  ex- 
tenuated Miss  Evans,  somewhat. 

"  I'm  not  sure  I  don't  like  her  best," — so  said  Gracey,  wavering 
towards  a  forgiving  tone — "  when  she  worries  over  Papa's  dinner." 

"  Law,  Miss  Gracey,  as  if  there  wasn't  plenty  to  give  attention, 
without  her  meddling!" 

But  I  endorsed  my  sister's  judgment.  "  I  don't  hate  Jemima 
half  so  much  when  she  goes  in  for  badgering  Cook,"  said  I,  forci- 
bly. Whereupon  Varnish  seemed  to  feel  out-voted,  and  in  a  mi- 
nority, for  she  said : — "  Well,  my  dears,  all  I  say  is,  I  hope  I  may  live 
to  find  myself  mistook.  Young  folks  know  best,  nowadays." 

My  enlightenment  from  this  conversation  was  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  the  amount  of  direct  accusation  brought  against  Miss  Evans 
by  Varnish.  She  had  not  formulated  any  specific  indictment, 
except  that  of  buttoning  my  fathers  coat.  Otherwise,  she  had 
merely  put  on  record  her  conviction  that  the  lady  was  artful.  I  had 
at  once  jumped  to  her  meaning,  and  so  had  Gracey. 

We  two  young  people  resolved  ourselves  into  a  committee  of 
observation,  and  at  intervals  reported  progress.  Not  consciously; 
but  that  is  how  the  survivor  sees  them,  looking  back  sixty  years 
afterwards.  The  committee  sat  through  that  winter,  sometimes 
agreeing  on  a  report,  more  often  differing  about  details,  without 
any  chairman  to  give  a  casting  vote.  I  can  reconstruct  some  of 
the  committee  meetings — in  part  at  any  rate.  As  for  instance, 
on  Christmas  day — or  Boxing  Morning,  more  strictly.  It  was  our 
first  Christmas  in  the  new  house,  a  twelve-month  after  that  miser- 
able one  that  followed  my  mothers  death. 

"  I  say,  Gracey,  I  think  it  must  be  all  rot." 

"  I  don't  know.    .    .    .    No!— I  really  don't.    Why?" 

"  Why — look  at  Jemima  last  night." 

"Well!" 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  151 

"  She  didn't  do  anything." 

"  What  did  you  expect  her  to  do? " 

"  Why — she  didn't  dress  up,  or  anything." 

"  Well.  I  thought  that  rather  nice  of  her.    Ellen  dressed  up." 

"  Yes,  because  of  that  ass  she's  engaged  to.    And  he  never  came!  " 

"  It  was  because  of  his  toothache.  .  .  .  Yes — his  tooth  really 
was  very  bad,  Jackey." 

"  Oh !    .    .    .    Well,  what  were  we  saying  ?    About  Jemima " 

"  What  were  you  saying  about  Jemima? " 

"  I  thought  Varnish  had  found  a  mare's  nest  about  her  and  the 
Governor." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  very  well — you  don't  think  so " 

"  Don't  be  a  silly  boy.    Tell  me  why  you  thought  so." 

"  Well,  anybody  would  have  thought  so !  Look  how  she  kept 
out  of  the  Governor's  way.  And  what  a  rumpus  she  was  making  to 
stop  our  making  any  noise." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it."  And  Gracey  evidently 
didn't. 

Clear  as  the  thing  had  seemed  to  me,  unentangled  in  language, 
I  found  I  couldn't  word  it  when  challenged  to  do  so.  I  can  now. 
I  meant  that  Miss  Evans's  desire  that  no  over-festivity  should  grate 
upon  my  father  proved  her  too  keenly  alive  to  the  degree  of  his 
bereavement  to  permit  of  our  entertaining  the  idea  that  Varnish 
was  right.  I  think  I  answered  Gracey  by  an  unintelligible  attempt 
to  explain  this,  and  she  treated  it  as  it  deserved.  I  escaped  into 
a  realm  of  speculation  about  the  future.  "  Won't  she  be  in  an 
awful  wax  when  she  finds  it's  no  go!"  said  I,  delicately.  I  failed 
to  interpret  Gracey's  dubious  expression  rightly.  As  I  now  read  it, 
the  grave  blue  eyes  and  closed  lips — closed  against  temptation  to 
speech — of  the  image  memory  supplies,  seem  to  be  keeping  back  the 
counter-question: — "Will  it  be  no  go?" 

The  next  committee  meeting  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  must 
have  been  well  over  four  months  later,  for  the  grass  was  summer- 
dry  to  the  feet  on  the  lawn  that  committee  walked  on,  with  its 
arms  round  each  others  neck — the  phrase  analyzes  all  right,  if  you 
analyze  fair.  And  the  apple-blossoms  were  thick  on  our  neighbour's 
trees,  but  the  pear-trees  had  paid  their  usual  tribute  to  late  April 
frosts,  and  the  crop  we  had  been  at  liberty  to  dream  of  three 
weeks  since  had  become  a  mere  might-have-been,  in  our  garden. 
I  recall  Gracey  and  myself  on  the  grass  talking  about  the  apples 
and  lamenting  the  pears.  So  I  suppose  it  was  in  the  middle  of  a 
warm  May,  after  a  fiendish  April. 


152  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Our  talk  ran,  otherwise,  on  a  domestic  perturbation.  Miss  Evans, 
who  had  been  for  over  fifteen  years  almost  one  of  the  family,  was 
going  to  desert  it  inexplicably.  More  inexplicably  now  by  far  than 
if  she  had  cried  off  during  any  of  my  remembered  years  before  my 
mothers  death.  For  I  could  well  recollect  the  dissensions  between 
them,  especially  latterly;  though  of  course  they  only  came  within 
the  scope  of  my  observation  imperfectly,  as  the  inner  life  of  his 
seniors  is  so  often  manifested  to  a  boy.  Since  my  mother's  death, 
almost  unbroken  concord  reigned;  and.  during  the  last  few  months 
particularly,  Miss  Evans's  relations  with  every  member  of  the  family 
— Varnish  perhaps  excepted — had  been  perfectly  satisfactory.  They 
might  be  summed  up  as  generally  affectionate,  the  affection  be- 
coming passionate  for  my  sister  Roberta,  cooling  down  to  tolerance 
towards  myself,  and  strongly  imbued  with  grateful  respect,  towards 
my  father.  And  yet.  this  lady  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  must 
say  adieu  to  this  haven  of  continuous  peace,  assigning  for  her 
action  no  reason  that  seemed  really  to  account  for  her  con- 
duct. 

"  Anyhow  it  shows  we  were  right,"  said  I  in  committee,  with 
Gracey,  after  an  ad  interim  lament  over  the  pears.  "  Varnish  was 
talking  rot." 

"  Was  she?"  said  Gracey,  accepting  my  language,  as  strictly 
in  order. 

*'  Well — wasn't  she?  "  said  I.    "  Anyhow,  we  were  right!  " 

"  Don't  say  we,  Jackey.  Because  7  didn't,  say  Varnish  was  talking 
rot.  Perhaps  she  was — perhaps  she  wasn't." 

"  I  knew  you'd  milk  and  water  it  all  away.  That's  just  like  you 
girls." 

"  Silly  boy!  Why  can  you  never  be  reasonable,  Jackey,  for  two 
minutes  together?" 

"Well — come  now — I  say — look  here!  Would  Jemima  be  such 
an  ass  ? " 

Gracey  made  no  pretence  of  not  understanding  me.  Indeed,  our 
reciprocities  in  apprehension  were  fully  up  to  special  brother-and- 
sister  point — a  point  near  clairvoyance.  But  my  speech  would 
profit  by  interpretation.  "  You  mean,"  said  she,  "  would  Miss 
Evans  run  away  from  Papa,  if " 

"  If  she  had  the  idea.  Yes."  I  notice  now  that  whenever  I 
half  think  into  this  reconstruction  of  an  almost  forgotten  past,  any 
direct  reference  to  bald  unqualified  marriage — with  my  father  as 
Miss  Evans's  end — my  memory  refuses  to  countersign  its  certifi- 
cate. I  don't  believe  we  ever  referred  to  matrimony.  It  was 
among  the  subconsciousness  of  the  position,  at  least  in  this  com- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  153 

mittee  meeting,  which  proceeded  as  follows,  Gracey  accepting  my 
completion  of  her  sentence: 

"  Varnish  says  she  won't  run  away " 

"  Won't  run  away?" 

"  She  says  we  shall  see." 

"Of  course  we  shall  see!  I  could  have  told  her  that.  But  I 
say — look  here!  If  Jemima  means  to  stick  on,  I  can't  see  what  all 
the  shindy's  about." 

"There  is  no  shindy.    Don't  be  such  a  boy!" 

"  I'm  not — and  there  is  a  shindy.  Why,  you  should  have  seen 
the  Governor.  He  was  in  a  fine  stew!" 

"When?" 

"  I  was  in  the  room  when.  I  mean  when  he  got  Jemima's  letter 
— eight  pages  on  pink  letter-paper — put  on  his  table  for  when  he 
came  back." 

"What  was  in  it?" 

"How  should  I   know?" 

"  I  mean — what  did  Papa  say? " 

"Oh,  he  said — well,  he  said — hero  was  a  pretty  how-do-you-do! 
Helen  was  going." 

"  What  did  you  say? 

"I  said:— 'Helen  who?'" 

"  You  silly  boy!    Who  else  could  it  have  been?" 

"  Nobody.  But  I  asked,  for  all  that.  .  .  .  What  did  th'e  Gov- 
ernor say  then?  He  didn't  say  anything — read  some  of  the  letter 
twice  over." 

"  And  when  he'd  read  it,  what  did  he  say  then?" 

"  Oh — then  he  said : — '  Helen  Evans,  inquisitorial  offspring.'  You 
know  the  Governor's  way." 

"  Didn't  ho  say  anything  else  ? " 

"  No — yes — he  thought  a  minute,  and  then  went  back.  Helen 
Evans  was  Helen.  What  did  I  call  her?  I  said — Jemima,  some- 
times. He  made  me  explain  about  J'mima  Ivins  in  Boz." 

"  Then  he  wasn't  in  such  a  towering  passion." 

"  I  didn't  say  he  was.  I  only  said  he  was  in  a  fine  stew.  .  .  . 
No — I  don't  consider  it's  at  all  the  same  thing." 

"  I  consider  it  is." 

"  Well — it  isn't!  The  Governor's  able  to  be  in  a  fine  stew  and 
not  stamp  and  ramp  like  a  booby." 

My  companionship  with  my  father,  with  the  free  run  of  his 
room,  continued — as  I  am  reminded  by  my  resuscitation  of  this 
interview — for  a  long  time  after  this.  It  was  a  phase  belonging 


154  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

to  bo3rhood,  which  merged  later  on  in  maturity.  Its  absorption  im- 
plied no  diminution  of  affection  on  the  part  of  either.  The  only 
difference  it  made  was  that  as  time  went  on  I  saw  less  and  less 
of  the  background  of  my  father's  life,  as  developed  by  conversa- 
tion with  visitors;  carried  on,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  with 
entire  carelessness  as  to  whether  I  was  listening  or  not.  Now  and 
then  he  would  give  me  a  broad  hint  that  I  was  not  wanted,  tell- 
ing me  to  make  myself  scarce  till  I  was  next  in  demand.  He  did 
this,  rather  to  my  surprise,  on  the  Sunday  morning  following  the 
above  garden  chat;  saying  he  expected  a  visitor.  And  though  I 
complied  without  remark,  I  spent  all  the  time  of  my  absence  in 
dissatisfied  speculation  about  the  reasons  of  so  unusual  an  action. 
And  this  more  especially  because  at  the  moment  of  his  suggestion 
that  I  should  go — or,  as  ho  put  it,  trot — no  visitor  had  come  in 
sight. 

Varnish  was  attending  public  worship  in  the  old  church,  and  so 
was  Gracey.  The  two  other  sisters  had  gone  to  St.  Luke's  to  hear 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Kingsley  preach.  1  thought  Miss  Evans  had  gone 
with  them  as  usual,  but  I  was  mistaken. 

After  a  constitutional  to  the  old  bridge — gone  now! — along  the 
old  river  road,  changed  now  but  there  still,  and  so  on  to  the  gate 
of  Cremorno  Gardens  and  back  home,  my  curiosity  as  to  this 
visitor,  audible  in  my  father's  library,  became  so  great,  that  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  eavesdrop  up  to  what  I  held  a  legitimate 
point,  just  so  far  as  to  identify  the  voice,  if  I  might.  There  was 
no  doubt  who  it  was,  and  ray  mind  said: — "Why — it's  Jemima! 
I  thought  she  was  at  church."  The  voice  spoke  fragmentarily — 
emotionally.  I  was  so  honourable  that  the  moment  I  had  identified 
it  I  recoiled  from  the  door  and  went  a  needlessly  long  way  off,  to 
emphasize,  as  it  were,  the  blamelessness  of  my  intent.  I  went  in 
fact  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  garden  fence  next  door,  but — I  am 
thankful  to  say — without  anticipating  in  the  smallest  degree  that 
the  conversation  there  would  be  much  more  audible  than  at  the 
street-door.  That  it  was  so  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  side  window 
of  the  library  opened  on  our  neighbour's  garden.  A  modest  amount 
of  casuistry  was  sufficient  to  convince  me  that  it  was  honourable 
under  these  circumstances  to  draw  inferences  from  the  sound  of 
voices,  though  I  should  of  course  retire  to  their  vanishing  point 
of  articulation,  if  I  detected  any.  It  was  playing  with  fire,  but  then 
I  should  tell  no  one  but  Gracey.  Not  even  Varnish,  unless  indeed 
what  I  overheard  made  for  refutation  of  her  rot,  which  a  less 
trenchant  vocabulary  than  mine  would  have  called  her  mistaken 
views  or  misapprehensions. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  155 

A  nice  point  of  conscience  connected  itself  with  Mr.  Mapleson's 
fowls — or  rather,  Thomas's.  Is  eavesdropping  practicable  at  all 
when  a  powerful  hen  is  dwelling  on  domestic  details  a  few  yards 
off?  Do  phrases  that  reach  one's  ears,  during  momentary  eluckful 
subordinations  of  the  main  theme,  count  as  having  been  really 
overheard?  I  say  not. 

Anyhow,  I  think  I  was  excusable  for  holding  myself  only  academ- 
ically aware — so  to  speak — of  one  or  two  fragments  of  speech  that 
detached  themselves  audibly  from  the  steady  earnest  current  of 
the  two  voices  that  rose  and  fell  and  interlaced,  or  paused  to  begin 
again;  renewed,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  more  of  tension  or  emo- 
tion than  was  compatible  with  the  complete  decay  of  Varnish's 
rot.  But  the  audible  phrases  were  all,  or  almost  all,  spoken  by  my 
father. 

"Unless  you  have  some  better  reason  .  .  ."it  said,  and  was 
lost.  Then  a  little  later,  petulantly: — "People  say! — people  say! 
What  does  it  matter  what  people  say?"  Then,  after  an  interval 
which  Miss  Evans  seemed  to  have  all  to  herself: — "All  fanciful 
nonsense!  If  you  are  really  happier  here  ..."  drowned  by  what 
seemed  earnest,  almost  passionate,  extension  and  confirmation  of 
the  only  words  I  clearly  caught.  "  But  I  am — I  am  ..."  from 
Miss  Evans.  Then  quick  undertones  for  a  while,  almost  as  folk 
speak  who  suspect  a  hearer,  and  yet  must  needs  risk  speech  in 
despite  of  him.  They  need  not  have  been  so  supercautious.  for  that 
hen  took  possession  of  the  rostrum;  with  the  good  effect  of  com- 
pletely soothing  my  conscience,  which  was  getting  a  little  un- 
easy at  so  much  overhearing.  Obviously  I  was  not  listening,  when, 
broadly  speaking,  nothing  was  or  could  be  audible.  But  one  always 
welcomes  confirmation  of  opinion. 

I  walked  to  the  garden  end  and  back,  and  persuaded  myself  that 
I  was  interested  in  lilies  of  the  valley.  They  palled,  and  my 
interest  was  transferred  to  some  house-martens,  who  I  think  had 
come  back  to  look  up  their  last  year's  lodgings,  and  were  dis- 
gusted with  the  smell  of  the  fresh  paint.  I  doubt  when  I  saw 
the  old  house  last,  any  swallow  had  built  for  a  long  time  in  its 
eaves.  There  was  no  fresh  paint  in  question  then;  the  London 
sparrow  was  responsible,  I  take  it. 

I  could  do  nothing  for  these  birds,  so  T  went  round  by  the  side 
path  in  the  garden  into  the  drawing-room,  wondering  when  Jemima 
would  have  done — so  ran  soliloquy,  through  a  fawn.  For  the  ques- 
tion was  beginning  to  arise — should  I,  or  should  I  not,  get  the 
walk  to  Lavender  Hill  and  Clapham  with  my  father  that  I  had 
been  promising  myself?  If  this  foolery  went  on — soliloquy 


156  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

continued — would  not  the  answer  have  to  be  in  the  nega- 
tive? 

Not  necessarily,  for  Jemima's  voice,  still  audible  in  the  distance 
seemed  to  be  drawing  to  a  close.  Soliloquy  remarked,  disrespect- 
fully, that  she  and  the  Governor  had  had  their  whack,  anyhow. 
I  think,  if  this  expression  implies  satiety  in  discussion  or  action, 
leading  to  a  profitable  result,  that  Miss  Evans  had  certainly  had 
hers.  At  least,  I  gathered  as  much  from  her  expression  as  her 
eyes  met  mine  in  the  drawing-room,  which  she  entered  a  minute 
later  than  myself;  having  however  opened  the  door  just  before  I 
came  in,  keeping  it  nominally  closed  that  no  dialogue  should  slip 
through  to  a  hearer,  if  any.  Some  came  through  the  inch  ajar, 
to  me,  nevertheless. 

"  Well,  then,  we  quite  understand — there's  to  be  no  more  non- 
sense about  going.  You  promise?" 

"  Yes — I  promise." 

"  Whatever  happens !  " 

"  Yes — whatever  happens !  "  And  thereupon  the  door  opened, 
and  Miss  Helen  Evans  came  in  with  the  expression  on  her  face 
that  I  have  referred  to. 

The  scant  material  at  the  disposal  of  Memory  after  a  sixty 
years'  gap  makes  a  vivid  image  of  the  past  a  thing  to  treasure, 
even  when  concurrent  record  is  absent.  How  much  more  when  it 
carries,  as  this  image  of  Miss  Evans  does,  a  conviction  to  my 
mind  as  to  the  nature  of  that  interview  with  my  father,  not  borne 
in  upon  me  then,  but  developed  by  maturer  insight  in  the  years 
that  followed.  I  have  repeated  a  guess-version  of  it  to  my  Self 
fifty  times,  and  met  with  scarcely  any  contradiction. 

In  it  my  father  appears  as  absurdly  paternal,  almost  affectedly 
so;  for  he  was  not  over  five-and-forty,  and  young  of  his  years-; 
while  the  young  lady,  though  she  may  have  looked  young  of  hers, 
certainly  had  not  a  minute  less  than  thirty-one  to  plead  guilty  to. 
It  presents  her — does  this  fancy  of  mine — as  accepting  this 
paternality,  possibly  for  strategic  purposes.  I  have  no  blame  for 
her;  a  woman  has  a  right  to  fend  for  herself.  I  can  picture  my 
father  also,  making  a  joke  of  the  eight-page  screed  she  had  com- 
posed with  such  care  for  his  perusal;  saying,  come  now,  what  was 
the  mystery? — what  did  it  all  mean? — surely  we  need  have  no 
secrets — we  who  had  known  each  other  so  many  years !  He  knew 
well  enough ;  it  was  the  malicious  gossip  of  some  fool  of  a  woman, 
was  it  not?  Well — forget  it! — was  it  worth  a  second  thought? 
Oh  no!  No  one  knew  that  better  than  Miss  Evans.  But  this 
sort  of  thing  was  so  difficult  for  a  woman  to  pay  no  attention  to, 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  157 

however  absurd  it  might  be  in  itself.  A  woman  was  so  defenceless 
— people  would  believe  anything!  .  .  .  Oh  yes! — it  did  matter 
what  they  believed.  Only  it  was  hard  for  a  man  to  realize  a 
woman's  position.  Every  one  would  think  .  .  .  but  there! — it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  talk  about  it. 

At  this  point,  this  puppet  of  my  imagining  shuts  in  a  secret 
perturbation — closes  her  lips  upon  details  it  would  never  never  do 
to  converse  upon.  For  them  to  converse  upon,  that  is!  Thereon 
the  other  puppet,  whose  strings  I  find  it  easier  to  pull,  breaks  into 
a  laugh  with  an  encouraging  tone  in  it,  exclaiming: — "  Come  now! 
— what  does  it  all  amount  to  when  the  murder's  out?  Mrs.  Some- 
body Something  said  you  paid  me  the  compliment  of  ...  Oh, 
very  well — very  well ! — All  right — all  right !  I  won't  say  anything." 
I  forged  this,  I  doubt  not,  to  suit  a  deprecating  gesture  of  this 
lady's,  familiar  to  me  but  not  quite  easy  to  describe,  a  rapid  vibra- 
tion of  two  very  pretty  hands — for  her  hands  were  pretty,  un- 
deniably— followed  by  a  semi-clasp,  halfway  to  prayer,  good  to  ex- 
press the  words : — "  Oh,  please  don't !  " 

My  dramatic  imputations  have  gone  further  than  that,  a  great 
deal,  sometimes  speculating  on  the  possibility  of  tendresses  of 
manner  between  the  puppets,  but  never  ascribing  active,  loverlike 
behaviour.  I  am  inclined  now  to  credit  this  to  a  curious  fancy  of 
mine  in  youth,  that  persons  I  accounted  grown  up  never  made 
love;  it  was  no  concern  of  theirs!  Miss  Evans's  expression,  which 
went  such  lengths  in  suggestion  of  dramatization,  conveyed  no 
hint  of  kissing;  and  I  really  never  had  any  grounds  for  inserting  it 
into  my  text.  But  her  face  gave  me  plenty  to  build  upon. 

And  yet — why?  Not  because  the  lips  were  shut  close;  that  was 
her  most  common  lip-form.  Not  because  her  eyes  gleamed;  they 
usually  gleamed.  Not  because  she  was  white;  she  very  seldom 
flushed.  So  if  I  never  come  to  know  and  I  am  not  likely  to,  now 
— what  it  is  that  gives  a  triumphant  look  to  a  face,  the  question  will 
remain  unanswered,  for  me.  All  I  can  say  to  my  Self  now  is  that 
the  recollection  of  her  visible  face  and  figure  at  that  moment  seems 
to  convey  with  it  a  knowledge  that  her  invisible  heart  was  pulsat- 
ing with  a  sense  of  triumph.  Her  voice  helps  it  perhaps.  Any- 
how, she  was  in  a  good  way,  as  the  phrase  runs. 

"  Why,  you  naughty  young  man ! — fancy  your  being  here  still ! 
Dear  Mr.  Pascoe  thinks  you  have  gone  for  a  walk." 

"Do  you  mean  the  Governor?"  said  I.  For  I  never  approved 
of  this  designation  for  him,  one  Miss  Evans  used  very  often. 

"  Oh,  if  you  like — the  Governor!  "  her  laugh  over  this  concession 
was  rich  and  pleasant.  But  it  rubbed  my  boyhood  into  me  and 


158  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  resented  that.  Still,  her  laugh  had  its  charm;  it  ran  over  its 
boundaries  like  the  juice  of  a  ripe  peach.  Really  if  Miss  Evans 
had  always  laughed  and  spoken,  I  should  have  had  much  more 
Christian  feeling  towards  her.  A  constant  watchfulness  that  beset 
her  countenance  when  at  rest  kept  me  in  a  state  of  subacute 
Paganism.  Varnish  hated  it — was  often  what  I  lucidly  described 
as  *'  down  upon  Jemima's  mug,"  and  expressed  her  reading  of  it 
by  calling  its  owner  a  "  perseverin'  "Cat." 

However  there  was  nothing  of  this  phase  of  Jemima  as  I  recol- 
lect her  image  and  its  laugh  in  the  newly  furnished  drawing-room, 
with  the  smell  of  lilac  and  mignonette  everywhere,  and  a  loud 
blackbird  outside  snubbing  her  u  fledglings  "  impertinent  remarks. 
It  seems  so  odd — the  way  the  whole  thing  comes  back  as  I  dwell 
on  it  1  For.  instance,  how  Miss  Evans  spoiled  the  good  impression 
of  her  laugh,  and  her  vast  redundance  -of  spring  muslin  dappled  with 
a  leaf-broken  sun  reflection  from  the  greenhouse,  by  adding : — "  Yes 
— the  Governor  thought  you  had  gone  for  a  walk.  We  both 
thought  so." 

I  was  secretly  exasperated  at  Jemima  grouping  herself,  as  it 
were,  with  my  father.  "We!" — the  idea!  Castor  and  Pollux, 
Gog  and  Magog — nay,  Adam  and  Eve  themselves ! — could  have  said 
no  more,  unless  indeed  a  first-person-dual  existed  in  their  day. 
But  no  protest  was  possible  that  would  not  have  given  more 
openings  to  duality.  Better  ignore  it !  "  There  won't  be  any  time 
now  for  him  and  me  to  get  a  walk  before  lunch,"  said  I,  somewhat 
morosely,  avoiding  the  pronoun  Miss  Evans  had  used,  to  keep  aloof 
from  her.  But.  I  was  not  equal  to  a  complete  dignified  silence 
about  my  injury.  "  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  have 
done  jawing,"  was  the  form  my  protest  took.  It  weakened  my  posi- 
tion. One  should  never  be  offensive.  It  gives  the  other  party 
an  opportunity,  and  is  tactically  bad. 

"  Oh  dear,"  cries  Jemima,  with  that  musical  laugh  again.  "  I 
am  so  sorry!  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  your  walk.  Stop  a  minute! " 
And  the  young  woman  actually  had  the  presumption  to  constitute 
herself  an  intermediary  between  me  and  my  father!  She  ran  back 
and  tapped  at  his  door.  I  could  have  passed  her  easily  if  she 
had  been  half  as  narrow  as  the  Rev.  Cuthbert  Turner's  daughter, 
who  was  here  with  him  yesterday;  but  in  those  days  no  one  could 
pass  a  lady  of  the  standard  width,  in  an  ordinary  entrance  lobby. 
';  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Miss  Evans  again,  when  my  father  responded; 
"  I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  from  your  walk."  I  was  too  proud  to 
sanction  Miss  Evans's  priority  by  playing  second  fiddle  visibly; 
so  I  remained  out  of  sight.  I  heard  my  father's  comment  that 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  159 

followed  her  communication  about  which  there  was  too  much  con- 
fidential undertone  for  my  liking.  It  ran : — "  He's  a  nice  young 
monkey!  How  many  hours  does  he  want  to  walk  about  Clapham 
Common  ?  "  However,  he  came  out  and  called  to  me.  "  Pedestrian 
persecutor — where  are  you?  Attention!  Mind  you're  ready  to 
start  in  five  minutes."  I  went  into  the  passage  to  say  "  All  right  1 " 
and  thought  Miss  Evans  was  much  too  close  to  him. 

My  only  impression  of  that  was  that  the  young  woman  was 
taking  rather  a  liberty.  I  could  still  have  speculated  uncon- 
cerned as  to  how  great  a  wax  she  would  be  in  when  she  found 
"  it "  was  no  go — that  mysterious  it  that  neither  I  nor  Gracey  nor 
Varnish  ever  gave  its  title  to.  And  yet  marriage,  however  much 
Grundy  pere  and  mere  hocus-pocus  it  to  keep  Miss  Grundy  in  the 
dark,  is  a  word  used  freely  by  all  to  designate  a  well-known  incident 
in  fiction  and  the  drama,  but  dictionary-bound  about  ladies  and 
gentlemen  out  of  harness. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  STORY 

WHEN  Nathaniel  Pascoe  came  to  the  decision  that  he  would  take 
the  plunge  and  ask  Helen  Evans  to  become  his  wife,  he  was 
actuated  by  several  motives,  but  by  no  means  the  least  of  them  was 
his  desire  to  retain  permanently  such  an  invaluable  inmate  in  his 
home  as  Helen  was  proving  herself  to  be,  and  moreover  give  her 
the  position  that  would  best  enable  her  to  direct  and  control  his 
family.  She  had  played  her  game  so  dexterously  in  the  past  year 
that  he  had  come  to  regard  her  as  the  absolute  salvation  of  his 
daughters,  and  to  feel  that  once  bereft  of  her  benign  influence,  they 
would  undoubtedly  drift  into  a  life  of  wanton  lawlessness.  No! 
girls  must  have  a  mother  to  guide  and  counsel  them,  and  who  was 
better  able  to  fill  their  dead  mother's  place  than  a  clever  beautiful 
creature  like  Helen,  who  moreover  had  known  them  all  from  child- 
hood. 

So  that  when  Miss  Evans  played  her  trump  card,  and  wrote  to 
inform  her  employer  that  she  felt  forced  regretfully  to  leave  the 
home  that  had  been  hers  for  so  many  years!  That  circumstances 
had  changed!  that  Mr.  Pascoe  was  now  a  widower!  and  that  it  was 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  some  tongues  should  be  evil !  etc. 
etc  ....  Mr.  Pascoe,  whose  romantic  devotion  to  his  wife's 
memory  had  received  a  rude  shock  from  the  reading  of  that  un- 
fortunate letter  of  hers  to  her  former  lover,  promptly  determined 
that  the  only  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  was  that  the  beautiful  Helen 
Evans  should  become  Mrs.  Pascoe  without  further  delay,  and  he 
therefore  lost  no  time  in  pressing  his  suit. 

Miss  Evans  after  a  creditable  amount  of  surprised  hesitation  ac- 
cepted him,  and  it  was  then  and  there  decided  that  as  soon  as  a 
sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  propriety  they 
should  be  married  very  quietly  without  taking  any  of  the  family 
into  their  confidence. 

So  in  due  course  of  time  it  was  arranged  that  Miss  Evans  should 
pay  a  visit  to  her  married  sister  at  Tooting,  merely  telling  her 
pupils  that  she  was  going  for  a  week  or  ten  days'  holiday.  The 
marriage  could  then  take  place  from  her  sister's  house,  and  Mr. 

160 


THE  STORY  161 

Pascoe,  who  had  timed  things  to  fit  in  with  his  Easter  vacation, 
drove  off  alone  early  one  morning  in  April,  got  married  and  re- 
turned with  his  bride  in  time  for  lunch,  when  the  unwelcome  news 
was  broken  to  the  assembled  family.  Now  though  the  idea  of  their 
father's  marrying  Miss  Evans  had  been  discussed  by  the  girls  as  a 
possible  nightmare  in  the  future,  they  were  totally  unprepared  for 
the  reality  when  it  was  burst  upon  them,  and  they  found  that  the 
dreaded  marriage  had  actually  taken  place. 

Gracey  and  Ellen  were  sullen  and  resentful,  but  Roberta  though 
she  was  the  one  her  father  had  looked  to  to  welcome  Helen  as  his 
bride,  simply  refused  to  speak  to  her.  In  vain  Mr.  Pascoe  fetched 
a  bottle  of  champagne  from  the  cellar  and  tried  to  be  hilarious, 
they  would  not  thaw.  Perhaps  had  Eustace  John  been  there  things 
might  have  been  easier,  but  he  was  out  for  the  day  with  Cooky,  and 
the  happy  pair  were  undisguisedly  relieved  when  at  three  o'clock 
the  brougham  came  round  to  take  them  to  the  station,  and  they 
departed  for  their  short  honeymoon  at  Folkestone. 

In  the  dusk  of  that  chilly  spring  evening  Varnish  sat  by  the 
fire  in  her  own  sanctum;  at  her  feet  sat  Roberta  her  head  resting 
on  her  old  nurse's  knee.  Roberta  had  been  crying,  and  Varnish 
made  no  attempt  at  consoling  her,  on  the  contrary  she  enlarged 
upon  the  cause  of  her  unhappiness.  "  Your  poor  dear  ma !  and  she 
dead  and  buried !  and  that  not  eighteen  months  ago !  " 

"  Oh,  Varnish,  Varnish,  it  is  all  too  dreadful,"  sobbed  Roberta. 

"  It  is  what  she  has  been  plotting  and  scheming  for  all  these 
past  months;  I  have  watched  her  at  it,"  continued  Varnish,  "but 
I  never  thought  your  pa  would  be  took  in  so  easy  like.  I  never  did 
take  to  her,  Miss  Roberta,  not  even  when  she  just  come,  and  you 
were  all  small.  I  said  to  myself  that's  a  hussy  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  mark  my  words,  darling,  there  always  has  been  a  summat 
queer  about  her,  I  am  sure  at  the  time  your  poor  ma  was  took,  she 
was  that  unnatural,  not  that  I  could  give  it  a  name  so  to  speak, 
but  I  sort  of  felt  her  queer  about  it  all." 

"Do  you  think  then,"  said  Roberta,  "that  she  began  plotting 
all  this  immediately?  I  mean  as  soon  as  ever  Mamma  was  gone." 

"  Who  can  say,"  answered  the  old  nurse,  "  nor  for  the  matter  of 
that  who  can  say  but  what  she  may  have  looked  forward  to  summat 
of  the  sort,  long  afore  your  poor  dear  ma  took  the  poison." 

Roberta  gave  a  sudden  start  and  turning  sharply  round  looked 
up  into  Varnish's  face,  and  said  almost  in  a  whisper: 

u  You  know.  Varnish  dear,  Helen  did  go  into  Mamma's  room 
that  awful  night,  just  before  we  started  for  the  theatricals.  I  am 


162  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

positively  certain  she  did,  though  she  told  me  she  only  just  put 
her  head  in  at  the  door.  Mamma  sent  me  to  tell  her  to  come,  and 
she  would  never  have  let  her  keep  the  door  open  while  she  talked 
to  her,  it  was  such  a  cold  night,  besides;  the  bed  was  ever  so  far 
from  the  door,  she  must  have  gone  into  the  room,  or  she  could 
not  have  heard  what  Mamma  had  to  say  to  her.  And  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Varnish,"  continued  Koberta  with  a  quick  flash  of  vehement 
insight,  "  she  knew  about  that  overdose,  I  am  sure  she  did !  And 
she  never  told!  Mamma  might  have  been  saved  had  the  doctor 
been  sent  for  in  time!  And  she  knows  it,  and  talks  about  poison 
bottles  in  her  sleep !  And  now ! !  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  pretty,"  said  Varnish  with  a  startled  scared 
look  on  her  wrinkled  face.  "  Remember,  darling,  she  has  married 
your  pa ! " 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

THE  evening  of  the  day  the  bride  and  bridegroom  returned  from 
their  short  honeymoon  my  father  looked  so  much  like  himself, 
when  I  entered  his  library,  that  I  could  have  easily  given  way  to  the 
fancy  which  stirred  in  my  mind  that  none  of  the  past  two  years  was 
reality,  but  only  dream — dream  to  be  waked  from  with  joyful 
alacrity.  Especially  Jemima,  said  a  sub-conscious  postscript,  in 
an  undertone. 

The  two  glazed  bookcases  which  had  nearly  baffled  Satterthwaite, 
so  much  were  they  out  of  scale  with  The  Retreat,  would  have  had 
all  the  force  of  Mecklenburg  Square,  if  they  had  touched  the 
ceiling  less  uncomfortably.  There,  at  the  Square,  a  two-foot 
margin  would  have  given  Tom  Thumb  room  to  stand  upright. 
Here,  a  cat  could  not  have  wedged  herself  into  the  concealed  space 
that  was  looking  forward  to  undisturbed  dust  until  the  expiration 
of  our  lease.  Otherwise,  they  made  the  same  background  to  the 
same  Governor  as  in  the  old  days  of  the  Square,  two  years  since. 
His  chair,  table,  lamp,  cabinet  with  nests  of  drawers  with  a  lock- 
up to  each — nests  from  which  no  drawer  ever  took  flight — were  all 
the  very  same,  only  nearer  together.  They  hardly  looked  at  home 
yet  then,  but  they  must  have  forgotten  the  Square  by  the  time 
The  Retreat  came  to  an  end,  long  years  after. 

What  bid  highest  for  the  dream  interpretation  was  my  father's 
pipe.  Its  aroma  was  so  intensely  the  same  as  in  the  old  days, 
that  when  I  closed  the  door  I  had  entered  by,  I  could  have  ascribed 
my  own  alacrity  in  doing  so  to  my  mother's  edicts  against  the 
escape  of  smoke  into  the  passage;  the  traditions  of  which  my 
father  reverenced,  for  her  sake.  I  recollect  cancelling  a  proposed 
thought  in  my  brain  at  that  moment,  touching  Jemima's  probable 
attitude  towards  tobacco.  If  she  approved  it,  would  its  limita- 
tion to  my  father's  sanctum  lapse  naturally,  or  would  he  stick  to 
it  as  a  memorial  usage,  a  tribute  to  the  past? 

"  Come  along  in,  Jackey  boy,"  said  he.  "  Come  in  and  forgive 
your  father."  I  had  done  that,  to  my  thinking,  but  I  supposed  he 
wanted  ratification.  My  going  straight  to  sit  on  his  knee  served 
this  turn.  There  could  be  no  reserve  of  unforgiveness  behind 

163 


164  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

that.  I  was  embarrassed  nevertheless,  and  he  did  nothing  to 
relieve  ray  embarrassment  by  saying: — ''Well! — And  what  then?" 

I  took  advantage  of  the  ambiguity  of  this  question.  Surely  it 
left  the  determination  of  its  subject  to  me. 

"I  say,"  said  I,  "where  do  you  think  we  went?  We  went  all 
over  by  Willesden  and  round  by  Wembley,  and  if  we  had  only 
had  another  hour  we  could  have  got  to  Pinner,  and  been  back  in 
time  for  grub."  I  felt  the  irrelevancy  of  this  information  even 
as  its  words  passed  my  lips. 

"  That  was  glorious !  "  said  my  father.  But  I  could  see  that  he 
was  not  deeply  involved  in  topographical  comparisons  as  he  went 
on: — "Let's  see! — where  did  we  go?  Round  by  Willesden,  and 
over  by  ...  where  was  it ?" 

"  Wembley.  And  we  really  could  have  gone  on  to  Pinner,  if  only 
we  hadn't  had  to  be  back  for  dinner  at  half-past-seven!  "  All  our 
records  of  these  walks-out  were  framed  to  tax  human  credulity. 

"  Poor  old  Jackey !  "  said  my  father,  with  true  commiseration  in 
eyes  I  seem  to  see  as  I  write.  "  We  were  back  for  dinner  at  half- 
past-seven,  and  found  a  new  stepmother  on  the  premises.  Strange 
sort  of  wild  beast,  eh  ? " 

The  discovery  of  any  form  of  language  to  grapple  with  the 
subject  was  quite  beyond  me.  I  could  only  nod — a  long  nod.  not 
a  short  one — leaving  my  eyes  fixed  on  my  father  till  further 
notice. 

"  And  which  was  it,  beastly  ? — or  awful  ?  " 

I  submitted  to  the  implied  criticism  of  a  style  which  I  now 
see  has  its  faults,  and  shook  my  head  firmly  and  continuously, 
behind  closed  Ups.  I  was  ready  to  go  great  lengths  in  white-wash- 
ing my  father — would  have  tried  for  it  had  he  brought  home  a 
cartload  of  brides — but  I  preferred  to  veil  that  readiness  in 
mystery  as  to  its  details. 

"  Your  sister  Gracey,"  he  went  on,  using  the  form  of  speech 
he  always  preferred,  for  some  reason  unknown  to  me,  "  your  sister 
Gracey  seems  to  be  inclining  towards  a  more  lenient  view  of  the 
culprits.  One  of  them,  at  any  rate!  " 

"  She  means  you,  of  course! "  I  said.  "  She's  not  such  a  beastly 
fool  as  Bert!  "  I  was  rapidly  taking  sides  with  my  father. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  done  better  to  leave  me  to  the  natural 
course  of  development.  But  I  think  he  felt  that  my  attitude 
towards  my  other  sisters  was  too  drastic.  "  Jackey  boy,"  said  he, 
gently — almost  apologetically — as  his  fingers  made  chance  re- 
arrangements of  my  unruly  head  of  hair: — "  Remember  what  it  is 
the  girls  are  thinking  of.  Don't  let  us  be  hard  on  them!  " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  165 

"  What  are  they  thinking  of  ?  "  I  was  really  asking  for  informa- 
tion, while  maintaining  a  collateral  contempt  for  girls,  chiefly 
sisters. 

His  reply  was  simply: — "  They  are  thinking  of  your  mamma." 

It  was  very  daring.  The  living  die  every  day,  and  are  dust. 
But  they  are  not  to  be  spoken  of  too  soon.  They  must  be  laid-up 
for  awhile,  to  give  decorum  breathing-time.  Analysis  of  their 
faults  will  wait,  and  a  time  will  come  when  even  their  next  of  kin 
will  be  philosophical  over  their  extinction.  But  a  decade  is  wanted 
for  this — it  is  quite  the  lowest  figure  the  Correctitudes  will  accept. 
That  visit  to  Highgate  Cemetery  was  not  yet  two  years  old. 

I  feel  now  horribly  ashamed  of  my  question  that  followed, 
which  seems  to  me,  look  at  it  how  I  may,  no  better  than  crude 
brutality.  I  was  not  conscious  of  any  want  of  feeling  then — only 
of  a  burning  thirst  for  an  answer  to  it.  I  began  it  tentatively: — "  I 

say,  Gov "  and  wavered  back  into  an  awkward  silence,  checked 

by  a  sudden  suspicion  that  I  might  be  transgressing  rules.  I  had 
so  often  broken  through  imperative  ones  before  now,  through  igno- 
rance of  their  existence. 

''What  do  you  say,  importunate  interrogator?"  The  hand  that 
was  caressing  my  face  felt  cool  and  collected,  so  far  as  its  touch 
could  register  its  owner's  feelings.  I  feel  sure  he  had  no  idea  what 
was  coming. 

"What  would  Mamma  say?"  I  thought  for  one  short  moment 
that  I  had  hurt  or  offended  him,  so  quickly  did  he  withdraw  his 
hand.  But  I  was  wrong,  as  far  as  offence  went,  at  any  rate.  For  it 
was  back  again  as  before  a  moment  after,  having  just  covered 
his  eyes  and  brow  during  that  moment,  as  though  some  sudden 
pain  had  shot  through  them. 

And  he  was  repeating  my  question.  "  What  would  Mamma  say? 
— what  would  Mamma  say?  Quite  right,  Jackey  boy!  Good  boy  to 
ask !  .  .  .  No,  no — don't  run  away !  "  I  remember  his  words 
more  clearly  than  the  movement  on  my  part  that  had  occasioned 
them.  He  went  on,  dreamily: — "Why  should  I  not  tell  my  boy? 
Only,  need  I? — need  I? "  I  am  certain  that  he  was  not  alive  to  the 
way  I  was  absorbing  his  words — as  little  as  to  my  retention  of 
them  in  the  years  to  come.  Sixty  years  now — just  think  of  it ! 

His  words  that  followed  are  what  I  have  been  feeling  so  solicitous 
about;  solicitous,  that  is,  that  my  powers  of  memory  should  not 
flag  at  a  critical  moment,  and  make  my  record  of  them  barren. 
These  are  what  I  heard — these  I  am  about  to  write.  I  may  have 
unconsciously  added  some  word  I  knew  he  meant;  but,  if  so, 
my  conviction  of  it  must  have  been  indeed  a  strong  one.  I  have 


166  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

more  faith  in  it  than  in  my  record-power,  at  the  end  of  such  an 
almost  geological  period. 

"  Let  us  talk  about  Mamma,  Jackey  boy.  Why  should  we  not,  my 
boy  and  I  ?  Listen,  Jackey !  '  What  would  Mamma  say  ? ' — that  was 
your  question?"  I  nodded  an  unequivocal  affirmative.  "Shall  I 
tell  you  what  Mamma  would  say  ?  "  I  nodded  again.  "  She  would 
say  nothing.  If  your  mamma  were  here,  and  I  could  see  her  and 
hear  her  voice,  and  the  whole  of  -life  could  be  as  it  was  .  .  . 
Yes! — the  whole — the  whole!  Back  in  the  old  house  .  .  .  with 

the  old  ways  .  .  .  and  the  misery  unknown !"  His  voice 

shook  under  the  stress  of  old  memories  revived,  the  clash  of  by- 
gone time  with  our  own;  and  I,  being  a  mere  crude  boy,  was  as 
much  alive  to  my  own  objection  to  emotion,  which  was  very  strong, 
as  to  its  demand  for  human  sympathy.  I  did  not  see  in  his  speech 
something  I  see  plainly  now.  He  seemed  to  make  an  effort  towards 
a  completer  self-control,  repeating  his  own  words  quickly : — "  If 
your  mamma  were  here  and  I  could  see  her  and  hear  her  voice 
.  .  .  Why — what  would  there  be  for  her  to  say  anything  about? 
We  should  all  be  back  again,  like  old  times,  eh — Jackey  boy !  "  I 
think  he  wanted  me  to  receive  the  idea,  without  elaborate  explana- 
tion, that  hypotheses  cut  both  ways — are  edged  tools  to  play  with. 
He  ended,  a  moment  after,  with: — "I  have  turned  Miss  Evans  into 
Mrs.  Pascoe  because  your  mamma  can  know  nothing  about  it,  as 
one  day,  dear  boy,  we  too  shall  know  nothing.  The  wind  will 
blow,  and  the  sun  will  shine,  but  we  shall  know  nothing.  No — 
neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  light  nor  darkness.  We  shall  pass  away 
as  others  have  passed  away  from  us,  and  know  no  more  than  they 
know  now." 

I  have  always  thought  the  better  of  my  father,  and  reverenced 
him  more,  that  he  had  the  courage  to  speak  so  plainly  about  his 
own  views  of  Death.  Should  I  love  his  memory  more  if  it  pre- 
sented him  to  me  as  the  preacher  of  a  vague  hereafter  he  had  no 
belief  in?  Surely  not.  But  he  had  never  interposed  between  me 
and  the  precept  and  example  of  others,  for  he  stood  alone  in  his 
Sadducism,  and  was  condemned  by  my  mother  and  elder  sisters  for 
it;  while  Gracey  had  communicated  to  me,  in  secret  conclave,  her 
view  that  Papa  was  not  in  earnest.  So  that  in  my  immature  mind 
the  tenets  of  the  current  Orthodoxies  were  not  unrepresented,  and 
even  my  disposition  to  condemn  them  broadly  as  rot — out  of 
respect  for  him — did  not  seem  to  warrant  my  acceptance  of  an 
entire  condemnation  of  them  without  a  protest. 

It  took  form  after  some  moments  of  silence,  in  which  I  decided 
that  I  could  not  refer  to  my  mother's  faith ;  that  Ellen's  and  Bertie's 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  167 

\vere  valueless;  and  that  Gracey  was  still  juvenile  to  quote  as  an 
authority.  I  began  hesitatingly: — ''Varnish  says " 

"  What  does  Varnish  say,  Solemn  Jackey  (  "  said  he,  pinching  my 
cheek  and  making  me  feel  too  young  to  go  on. 

But  I  screwed  up  my  courage,  and  selected  from  among  a  con- 
siderable variety  of  views  of  the  state  of  the  Departed  held,  or 
professed,  by  my  authority,  a  good,  round,  satisfactory  one  no  sur- 
vivor could  reject  on  its  merits. 

"  Varnish  says  Mamma's  an  angel,"  said  I,  bluntly. 

"  And  Varnish  knows,"  said  my  father.  "  How  does  Varnish 
know  ? " 

"  She  says  the  Bible  says  so."  I  don't  know  that  I  had  ever 
actually  heard  this  from  Varnish,  but  it  sounded  right. 

"  The  Bible  says  so  many  things,"  said  my  father,  drily.  "  Some 
are  much  more  improbable  than  that  your  mamma  is  an  Angel. 
But  listen  to  this,  Jackey,  and  bring  your  powerful  mind  to  under- 
stand it,  old  man.  If  your  mamma  is  an  angel,  and  can  see  us 
here  now,  I  know  she  would  not  be  happy  to  see  Helen  Evans  go 
away  from  her  girls,  and  leave  them  alone,  after  being  with  them 
so  many  years." 

I  know  that  my  response  to  this  was  crude  and  coarse,  but  it 
was  to  the  point.  "  Why  wasn't  Jemima  to  stick  on  without  any 
marrying?"  And,  indeed,  as  Jemima  had  "stuck  on"  for  the 
last  eighteen  months,  the  question  did  seem  to  arise. 

!My  father  only  smiled  benignantly.  "  There  are  more  little 
niceties  in  Heaven  and  earth,  blaster  Jackey,"  said  he,  "  than  are 
dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.  Suppose  we  consider  that  I  know 
best,  about  that !  " 

"All  right!"  said  I,  with  generous  complacency. 

"Suppose  we  do!  And,  my  dear  boy.  there's  this."  His  voice 
fell  to  a  greater  seriousness.  "  There's  a  thing  I  want  you  to  bear 
in  mind.  Promise  me  you  will.  I  mean  promise  you  will  remem- 
ber what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you."  I  expressed  my  readiness  to 
do  so,  or  indeed  anything  else,  and  he  continued : — "  Some  of  these 
days,  when  you  are  a  man,  and  I'm  not  a  man  any  longer, — which 
\vill  also  come  about  some  of  these  days,  quite  naturally — if  ever 
it  crosses  your  mind  that  your  Governor's  behaviour  seemed  un- 
accountable .  .  .  Understand ? " 

"All  right!" 

"  Don't  run  away  with  the  idea  that  I  had  not  some  good  reason 
for  what  I  did.  Now,  that's  difficult.  Sure?  you  understand  it  ?  " 

I  was  absolutely  sure  that  I  understood  it ;  much  surer  than  I  am 
now  that  some  of  the  foregoing  conversation  has  not  been  invented 


168  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

by  Memory  to  accommodate  Probability.  She  has  her  complacent 
as  well  as  her  contradictious  fits.  If  one  of  the  former  should 
prompt  her  to  revive  any  more  of  it.  I  will  write  it  in,  in  its  place. 
There  must  have  been  more,  for  I  remember  plainly  that  when  I 
left  my  father,  my  sisters  and  the  bone  of  contention  were  light- 
ing bedroom  candles  outside  in  the  passage,  with  a  parade  of  mutual 
courtesy  quite  foreign  to  current  usage  at  that  date.  It  was  less 
than  an  hour  after  dinner  when  I  closed  the  library  door  behind 
me  so  quickly,  to  shut  in  the  smoke. 

I  suppose  it  was  what  writers  of  fiction  call  the  "  irony  of  Fate  " 
that  Roberta,  whose  affection  for  Miss  Evans  had  been  regarded 
by  us  all  as  an  unchangeable  institution — like  the  Equator,  or  Sun- 
day— was  the  fiercest  of  the  whole  family  in  her  resentment  of 
her  stepmother. 

My  sister  Ellen  and  myself  at  least  were  quite  ready  to  mani- 
fest a  grudging  cordiality.  My  own  was  far  the  warmer  of  the 
two,  being  based  on  a  bedrock  of  faith  in  my  father,  while  Ellen's 
was  little  more  than  a  version  of  her  usual  objection  to  any  decided 
form  of  action,  or  active  form  of  decision.  "  What  is  the  use  of 
fuss?"  was  a  question  she  often  asked,  and  never  got  any  satisfac- 
tory answer  to,  although  many  are  obvious.  Gracey  was  merely 
quiet  and  frightened  throughout,  not  going  far  away  from  Varnish; 
evidently  feeling  her  protection,  and  perhaps  also  regarding  her  as 
a  person  used  to  marriages,  and  capable  of  dealing  with  them.  I 
suspect  this,  because  I  had  a  similar  feeling  myself. 

1  suppose  it  was  at  about  this  time  of  my  life  that  it  occurred  to 
me  to  look  at  my  sisters  critically.  Ellen  soft-haired,  pretty,  violet- 
eyes;  blue-veined  on  a  tender  skin;  irresolute  lips  their  owner 
would  not  leave  to  assert  themselves  as  an  intelligible  mouth,  but 
would  perversely  hold  between  very  pearly  teeth,  or  manipulate 
out  of  all  reason  with  a  tender  finger  and  thumb.  For  her  hands 
were  uncommonly  pretty  without  a  doubt.  But  she  had  never 
made  good  the  defect  my  mother  complained  of  so  strongly,  that  in 
spite  of  her  own  example  in  youth,  her  daughter  had  not — to  borrow 
my  father's  phrase — filled  out.  She  remained  figureless,  but- 
said  professional  skill — easy  enough  to  fit  when  backed  by  secret 
artifices.  My  brutal  boyhood  discerned  in  these  underlying  abomi- 
nations a  reason  why  Ellen's  lovers  wore  out  at  a  certain  stage 
of  courtship,  that  stage  occurring  at  or  soon  after  the  time  when 
its  maturity  permitted  or  demanded  tendresses  of  a  nature  to  detect 
them.  I  may  write  what  amuses  me,  and  it  amuses  me  now — 
and  saves  further  delicacy — to  put  on  record  words  I  used  myself, 
to  describe  contingencies  of  the  situation.  "  If  she  goes  crack 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  169 

or  scranches,"  I  said,  "  he  knows  it  isn't  her."  This  was  to 
Gracey's  ears  alone.  She  nodded  a  thoughtful  assent. 

Then  as  to  my  image  of  Bertie.  1  had  never  recognized  the 
fact  that  she  was  handsome — if  I  tie  myself  to  an  exact  date — 
until  she  turned  upon  the  treacherous  Jemima, — on  the  occasion,  I 
mean,  of  Miss  Evans's  first  appearance  as  Mrs.  Pascoe;  I  fancy  I 
may  have  referred  to  it — but  I  remember  her  white  anger  seemed 
to  turn  her  hair  black,  and  it  became  her.  I  know  I  remarked  to 
Gracey  that  Bert  was  in  an  awful  wax.  Possibly  the  awful  wax 
sat  well  upon  her — brought  out  her  good  points.  For  it  certainly 
dawned  upon  me  for  the  first  time,  at  that  moment,  that,  I  had  a 
handsome  sister.  It  was  a  moment — no  more — but  when  I  coax  the 
image  back  to  me,  by  thought  of  the  time  and  its  surroundings,  it  is 
vivid  still. 

I  fancy  now  that  that  old  grandmother  of  mine, — the  Old  Spit- 
fire,— when  she  was  young  and  George  the  Third  was  King,  carried 
herself  erect  and  flashed,  like  a  slightly  more  truculent  Roberta. 
I  remember  a  black  silhouette  of  her,  over  the  dining-room  chim- 
ney-piece at  Highbury,  which  looked  as  though  she  was  measuring, 
back  to  back,  against  a  great-aunt  in  the  same  frame.  Each  was 
trying  to  shoot  up  the  tortoise  shell  comb  her  knot  owed  its  sta- 
tion in  life  to.  as  high  as  possible;  and  each  had  the  longest  pos- 
sible neck,  and  the  shortest  possible  waist.  As  I  recall  Bert's  un- 
compromising demeanour  now,  it  brings  back  to  me  those  sil- 
houettes, though  1  don't  know  that  I  ever  connected  them  with 
her  before.  Of  course  it  must  have  been  the  Spitfire  from  whom 
she  inherited.  Why  was  the  strain  in  abeyance  through  one  gen- 
eration, to  reappear  in  the  next?  My  mother  must  have  been  like 
her  father,  or  an  entirely  new  departure  on  her  own  account. 

But  she  was  handsome,  this  dark  sister  of  mine.  I  cannot  write 
that  she  was  beautiful,  because  the  word  does  not  ring  true.  I 
cannot  apply  the  word  to  a  girl  whose  knuckles  interfere  with 
my  recollection  of  her  hand,  and  whose  bone-distances  assert  them- 
selves in  my  memory  of  her  after  all  else  has  vanished,  like  the 
smile  of  Alice's  Cheshire  cat.  I  think  her  individualities  and 
Ellen's  quarrelled,  to  the  advantage  of  neither,  and  they  were  best 
apart.  I  did  not  at  all  agree  with  a  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  who  used 
to  visit  us  about  this  time,  and  who  was  all  soul.  "  Dear  Ellen  " — 
she  would  moan — "  is  Elaine;  and  dear  Roberta  is  Joan  of  Arc. 
They  bring  each  other  out."  She  repeated  this  whenever  she  saw 
them,  but  I  can  find  no  fault  with  her  on  that  score,  for  she  con- 
fessed, and  disarmed  censure.  "  I  always  did  say  so.  and  I  always 
shall  say  so,"  came  as  a  sort  of  recitative.  That,  howerer,  was  not 


170  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

what  I  wanted  to  kick  her  for.  I  did,  and  what  provoked  me  was 
her  postscript  about  Gracey,  who  had  to  be  worked  in  somehow, 
although  she  limped.  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  would  suddenly  recollect 
this,  and  pounce  on  her  with  what  Gracey  called  treacly  violence, 
and  a  sort  of  expansive  gush,  exclaiming: — "And  he-ee-ere  is  my 
little  interesting  Gracey!"  She  had  better  have  left  Gracey  out, 
as  the  reason  of  the  word  interesting — a  very  limited  word — was 
that  limp.  Gracey  was  a  damaged  article. 

I  think  I  was  well  alive  to  all  this  at  about  the  time  of  my 
fathers  marriage,  having  more  or  less  regarded  my  elder  sisters 
as  merely  samples  of  their  class,  with  no  qualities  to  speak  of. 
I  think  his  marriage  directed  my  attention  to  Human  Nature, 
meaning  thereby  that  very  large  department  in  it  which  determines 
the  relations  of  the  two  sexes,  or  upsets  them.  I  had  ignored  this, 
with  a  liberal  application  of  the  epithets  Ass,  Idiot,  Booby,  and 
Fool  to  victims  of  the  Tender  Passion.  That  expresses  my  attitude 
towards  such  cases  in  this  department  as  had  been  brought  to  my 
notice  at  this  date.  The  conversion  of  Jemima  to  my  stepmother 
must  have  done  much  to  convince  me  that  Love  and  Matrimony, 
or  either  alone  without  the  other,  were  forces  to  be  reckoned  with. 
It  may  easily  have  been  this  new  consciousness  that  made  me  re- 
flect more  seriously  than  I  might  have  done  before  it  germinated,  on 
the  constant  reference  in  my  sister's  conversation  to  Anderson 
Grayper. 

He  was  the  young  man  who  had  played  Charles  to  Bertie's 
Maria  at  the  Hazela  at  Roehampton,  two  yeirs  before,  and  whom 
I  had  dismissed  from  my  mind  as  a  friend  of  Bertie's  on  the 
many  occasions  when  he  had  turned  up  as  a  visitor  at  The  Re- 
treat; sometimes  uninvited,  with  an  inadequate  pretext.  This 
was  all  very  well  so  long  as  I  regarded  the  entichements  of  young 
persons  of  opposite  gexes  as,  broadly  speaking,  tomfoolery.  But 
a  new  light  had  reached  my  mind.  Roused  by  a  painful  ex- 
perience of  what  might  ensue  in  the  case  of  a  mature  lady  and 
gentleman,  I  became  alive  to  possibilities  in  the  bush  in  the 
case,  even  of  my  own  sisters. 

Still,  so  deeply  penetrated  was  I  with  a  peculiar  view  of  the 
attractions  my  sisters  possessed  for  unattached  mankind — so  con- 
vinced that  no  arrow  would  ever  leave  Cupid's  quiver  on  their 
behalf — that  I  stifled  a  suspicion  that  rankled  in  my  mind  in 
connection  with  the  long  survival  of  a  common  interest  in  the 
Drama,  which  certainly  made  this  Charles  dance  attendance  on 
this  Maria  much  longer  than  any  belle  letire  seemed  to  warrant. 
It  might  have  remained  a  suspicion  until  the  climax  came,  if  it 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  171 

had  not  been  for  a  conversation  I  remember  well  enough  with 
my  dear  schoolboy  friend,  Cooky,  otherwise  Nebuchadnezzar.  Its 
date  must  have  been  about  a  couple  of  months  after  the  estab- 
lishment of  Miss  Evans  as  Mrs.  Pascoe,  as  we  were  in  the  gar- 
den after  dinner,  and  he  and  I  had  our  jackets  off  by  preference, 
for  coolness'  sake.  This  sort  of  thing  is  usually  well  after  mid- 
summer in  England. 

"You  didn't  understand  what  I  meant,  little  Buttons,"  he  had 
said,  referring  to  an  Italian  word  he  had  used. 

"Oh  yes,  I  did!"  said  I.  "Because  of  the  way  you  said 
it.  Besides,  there  was  amor  in  the  middle  of  it.  Amor  amor 
amorem  amoris  amori  amore  amores  amores " 

"That'll  do,"  said  Cooky.     "  Well— what  did  I  mean?" 

"  Meant  they  were  spooney,  I  suppose.  In  love.  That  sort  of 
thing !  "  I  am  sure  I  infused  contempt  into  this. 

"  Exactly  that  sort  of  thing."  said  he.  "  Amores  amorum  amo- 
ribus  amoribus."  1  suppose  Cooky  felt  that  after  all  it  was  hardly 
fair  to  leave  a  deserving  substantive  half  declined. 

I  hastened  to  exonerate  myself  from  any  suspicion  of  inex- 
perience. u  Of  course,  1  thought  they  were  going  it,  ever  so  long 
ago ! "  said  I,  endeavouring  to  speak  with  the  maturity  of  a 
worldling.  It  was  pretence,  on  my  part. 

"  That's  it,  little  Buttons.     Ever  so  long.     So  now  you  know/' 

"  Oh  yes!  "  said  I,  anxious  to  maintain  my  character.  "  They've 
been  going  it  like  one  o'clock  this  evening,  anyhow." 

Cooky  detected  a  movement  on  my  part  towards  observation 
of  what  was  going  on  now.  "  I  say,  little  Buttons,  none  of  that !  " 
said  he,  bringing  me  back  to  my  position,  in  which  the  sugges- 
tions of  endearments  could  not  be  verified.  "  Peeping's  not  fair 
play." 

''Not  when  it's  only  sisters?"  said  I. 

"Not  even  when  it's  sisters!"  said  he.  "What  do  you  think 

Ruth  would  say  if  she  caught  me ?"  But  such  espionage 

was  too  disgraceful  to  be  put  into  words,  and  Cooky  stopped 
short.  Young  Israel  was,  I  knew,  alive  to  the  beauty  of  Ruth, 
who  resembled  her  handsome  brother,  and  presumably  had  tete-a- 
tetes  that  warranted  him  in  ending  his  sentence — "  I  always  cough, 
or  fiddle  with  the  handle  of  the  door."  Which  quite  explained 
itself,  to  me. 

I  think  some  consciousness  of  the  part  this  garden  had  played. 
a  twelvemonth  past,  as  the  scene  of  the  ratification  of  my  fathers 
treaty  with  Miss  Evans,  must  have  made  my  crude  mind  recep- 
tive of  my  maturer  friend's  enlightenments,  for  my  next  words 


172  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

showed  how  they  had  fructified.  "  Won't  he  sneak  off  ? "  said  I. 
I  had  appreciated  the  position. 

"Why  should  he?"  said  Cooky. 

"  Ellen's  did,"  was  my  convincing  reply.  However,  my  sense 
of  justice  was  ready  with  a  qualification: — "But  then  his  boots 
were  prunella !  " 

"  See  what  you've  got  to  be  thankful  for,  little  Buttons !  You 
might  have  had  a  brother-in-law  with  prunella  boots." 

"  Not  by  now." 

"  Yes,  by  now,  this  very  minute !    With  prunella  boots." 

"  What  rot !  Ellen  isn't  old  enough."  This  was  sheer  frater- 
nity on  my  part,  as  Ellen  was  over  twenty.  But  brothers  stint 
mature  years  to  sisters.  Have  they  not  known  them  in  the 
nursery? 

Cooky  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  some  landmark  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  Time  to  fix  Ellen's  age  by.  "  You  said,"  said  he,  thought- 
fully, "  that  Gracey  was  nearly  sixteen.  She  says  quite." 

"  Her  birthday's  just  coming,"  I  explained.  "  Ellen's  two  years 
older  than  Bert,  and  Bert's  two  years  older  than  Gracey.  And 
two  bits  to  each  go — a  bit  apiece."  This  was  luminous,  I  sup- 
pose, as  Cooky  understood  it. 

"  Making  Miss  Ellen  five  years  older  than  Gracey,"  said  he. 
For  Ellen  was  always  Miss  Ellen,  and  Bert  Miss  Roberta,  as 
neither  had  sanctioned  Christian  naming. 

"  There  abouts !  "  said  I,  and  we  chewed  the  end  of  our  reflec- 
tions on  this  point,  till  a  thought  crossed  my  mind  which  made 
me  break  the  silence.  "I  say,  Cooky "  I  began. 

"  Go  it,  little  Buttons !  "  said  he. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  in  five  years'  time  Gracey  will 
be  old  enough  to  go  getting  married ! " 

"  My  old  sister  Rachel  was  less  than  eighteen  when  she  went 
and  got  married.  Then,  of  course,  she  didn't  matter!" 

"  You  mean  we  should  care  if  it  was  Gracey." 

"  Well — yes — I  suppose  that  was  what  I  did  mean."  My  mem- 
ory of  Cooky's  words  ascribes  a  sort  of  constrained  manner  to 
him,  a  change  from  his  easy  chat  of  a  minute  since.  It  is  an  odd 
trick  of  my  mind  that  it  refuses  to  recall  that  his  manner  pro- 
duced on  me  then  any  impression  akin  to  this  recollection  of  it, 
now. 

Instead,  I  seem  to  look  back  on  a  crude  boy,  who  sees  and 
understands  only  the  baldest  and  most  palpable  facts;  and  who 
says,  after  a  moment's  thought : — "  Couldn't  he  be  kept  out  of  it  ?  " 

"Who  be  kept  out  of  it?" 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  173 

"  Him.  Her  him.  Everybody  could  do  without  him.  Who 
wants  him  in?" 

'Instead  of  replying  as  I,  or  that  boy  that  I  was,  would  have 
had  him  reply: — "Nobody,  that  I  know  of!"  Cooky  answered 
with  gravity :  "  Gracey's  husband.  No — he  couldn't  be  kept  out 
of  it."  And  his  gravity  remained  on  him,  becoming  taciturnity, 
and  making  stillness  of  his  closed  lips  resemble  Amun-ra.  Our 
talk  had  somehow  stopped  with  a  jerk,  and  had  left  me  listen- 
ing to  the  undertones  of  my  sister  and  her  sweetheart,  just  too 
remote  to  allow  any  of  their  articulate  speech  to  be  forced  upon 
me,  which  was  what  my  idle  curiosity  wanted. 

If  any  one  were  to  read  this,  would  he,  I  wonder,  discern  in 
it  the  relation  in  which  my  sister,  her  brother,  and  his  friend, 
stood  to  one  another?  I  cannot  describe  it  to  my  Self  other- 
wise than  as  The  Club,  which  was  our  way  of  referring  to  it 
sometimes.  It  was  accepted  in  that  sense  by  members  of  the 
family;  by  Varnish,  for  instance,  who  spoke  of  it  collectively 
as  "  you  and  Miss  Gracey  and  Master  Moss."  My  father  also 
would  refer  to  us  as  "  the  three  of  you  "  or  as  "  you  two  young 
heretics  and  Nebuchadnezzar."  He  laid  stress  on  this  imputed 
heresy  of  the  Christian  members  of  The  Club  by  referring  to  its 
possible  guests  suggestively,  as  thus : — "  Get  some  of  the  Turks 
and  Infidels  from  over  the  way  to  come  and  sing  tunes."  I  am 
not  sure  of  the  exact  occasion  of  this  speech,  but  I  am  of  its 
application.  It  referred  to  the  Illingworths,  who  lived  oppo- 
site, and  were  naturally  spoken  of  as  the  Shillingsworths  in  my 
family.  Two  of  them  were  musical  enough  to  supply  S  and  B 
in  the  Mendelssohn  quartets  in  which  Gracey  and  Cooky  were 
respectively  A  and  T.  I  used  to  believe  in  their  singing,  as  a 
musical  achievement;  and,  so  far  as  I  can  retain  a  belief  by 
choice,  this  one  is  mine  still.  And  who  is  the  worse,  because 
an  old  cripple  in  a  workhouse  infirmary  conceives  that  voices 
of  nigh  sixty  years  ago  sang  right,  that  like  enough  sang  wrong, 
or  rery  crudely  at  the  best? 

If  I  had  caught  any  word  of  what  my  sister  and  Anderson 
Grayper  were  dropping  their  voices  to  say  among  those  rustling 
leaves  in  that  vanished  garden,  where,  as  I  write  now,  some  new 
flat  with  every  modern  convenience  is  running  riot,  it  might 
have  turned  my  outraged  mind  from  that  intrusion  of  Gracey's 
imaginary  husband  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  Club.  But 
not  a  syllable  reached  my  ears,  and  the  only  idea  I  received  from 
their  rapid  passionate  undertones  was  that  a  quarrel  was  brew- 
ing. Something  was  brewing,  as  I  came  to  know  later,  but  not 


1T4  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

a  quarrel.  I  went  back  on  my  resentment  against  any  indeter- 
minate brother-in-law. 

l<  If  he  shoves  himself  in,"  said  I,  carrying  on  the  talk,  which 
had  lulled,  "  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  it.  Should  you,  now  ?  Sup- 
posing you  were  me,  I  mean  ? " 

Cooky  looked  more  than  ever  like  Amun-ra,  as  he  delayed 
his  answer.  It  came  at  last.  "  You  will  have  to  stand  it,  little 
Buttons,  whether  you  like  it  or  no." 

What  I  said  next  convinces  me. that  boys  are  things  sui  gen- 
eris, a  strange  class  apart,  or  else  that  I  was  unlike  most  other 
samples.  I  incline  to  the  former  belief.  "  I  say,  Cooky,"  I 
began,  "  I've  got  such  a  jolly  idea ! " 

I  don't  think  Amun-ra  saw  what  was  coming.  Indeed,  the  way 
his  face  relaxed — for  the  moment  stayed  with  me,  and  I  can 
see  him,  almost,  now — spoke  of  relief  at  a  welcome  change  of 
topic.  "What's  the  next  article?"  said  he,  borrowing  a  meta- 
phor from  commerce.  "  Go  ahead !  Fire  away !  Don't  bottle 
up!"  I  suppose  he  saw,  in  my  speaking  countenance,  an  after- 
math of  hesitation  which  I  now  remember,  or  can  easily  feel 
convinced  of.  For  he  thought  it  necessary  to  add,  encourag- 
ingly :— "  What's  the  jolly  idea?"  I  think  he  thought  it  related 
to  walks,  or  chess,  or  cricket. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  and  Gracey  get  married?" 

Never  have  I  seen  such  a  blaze  of  red  flash  suddenly  over  a 
human  face  as  the  one  that  covered  Cooky's,  even  to  the  roots 
of  his  rich  crop  of  black  hair.  He  caught  me  by  my  trouser- 
band — for  I  had  repudiated  even  my  waistcoat,  from  the  heat — 
and  pulled  me  back  on  his  knee,  clapping  his  open  hand  on  my 
mouth,  to  silence  me.  "Hush,  little  Buttons!"  was  his  admoni- 
tion, none  the  less  telling  for  his  suppression  of  voice  to  utter  it. 

"  I  didn't  mean  now  directly,  you  know,"  I  said,  forcing  my 
words  through  a  freed  corner  of  my  mouth,  against  the  palm  of 
his  hand.  "  I  meant  some  of  these  clays,  when  you  are  both 
grown  up." 

His  hand  closed  tighter  on  the  freed  corner,  quashing  further 
elucidation.  "  Promise  to  shut  up  ? "  said  he,  "  and  then  I'll  take 
my  hand  off." 

My  reply  was  as  nearly  "  All  right ! "  as  those  words  can  be 
uttered,  through  lips  compulsorily  closed.  The  first  half  of  the 
letter  n  is  of  little  service  in  such  a  case.  I  helped  it  with  nods, 
and  the  gag  came  off. 

l<  Now  mind  you  keep  your  promise,"  said  Cooky. 

"  Never    to——  ? "    I    began,    and    was    stopped    by    the    fact 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  175 

that  I  could  not  recite  the  terms  of  the  compact  without  break- 
ing it. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Cooky.  "  Never  to.  You've  promised  never 
to ;  so  mind  you  don't !  " 

It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  shut  up  absolutely  without 
reserve,  in  obedience  to  a  pledge  so  given.  Besides,  inquiry 
into  the  reasons  for  silence  was  not  incompatible  with  its  obser- 
vance. I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  transgress.  u  But 
what  for?  "  said  I,  naively.  "  Why  mustn't  I? " 

"  Shut  up  till  you're  older,  little  Buttons,"  was  the  reply.  And 
as  the  deep  flush  Memory  recalled  on  the  speaker's  face  gives 
place  to  pallor  as  he  revives  these  words,  I  infer  that  the  boy 
I  was  took  note  of  it  at  the  time,  and  wondered.  And  my  won- 
der leads  to  nothing,  for  I  remember  no  more — at  least,  of  any- 
thing akin  to  its  later  topic.  -That  vanished,  to  be  recalled  years 
after,  when  I  became  alive  to  its  meaning.  I  had  to  shut  up 
till  I  was  older,  and  no  event  had  worked  on  my  understanding 
to  open  it. 

Perhaps  the  sequel  of  my  sister's  interview  with  Mr.  Grayper, 
which  I  had  classified  as  "  going  it  like  one  o'clock,"  was  what 
brought  my  wonder  at  Cooky's  sudden  changes  of  complexion, 
and  his  silence  that  followed,  to  an  end,  abruptly.  For  in  that 
silence  I  caught  articulate  words,  supplying  a  clue  to  their  own 
audibility.  Roberta  was  saying : — "  No — those  boys  have  gone, 
and  you  needn't  fuss.  How  nervous  and  ridiculous  you  men  are, 
about  everything!  ....  Well — suppose  they  did,  what  does  it 
matter?"  Then  the  young  man's  voice,  only  a  husky  murmur. 
Then  Roberta  again,  impatiently : — "  Don't  be  didactic !  The 
simple  question  is — are  you  willing  to  run  the  risk  ?  " 

I  conceived  that  this  had  reference  to  some  theatrical  scheme, 
and  that  the  parties  had  ceased  to  "  go  it "  in  any  tender  or 
passionate  sense.  What  sort  of  moony  imbecility,  derived  from 
fiction  or  the  stage,  I  ascribed  to  the  human  lover  and  his  lass 
art  this  time,  Heaven  only  knows;  but  I  am  certain  that  if  I 
had  formulated  a  sample,  it  would  have  gone  far  to  justify  my 
belief  that  the  victims  of  Cupid's  darts  were  Awful  Fools.  I 
felt  uninterested — had  no  desire  to  eavesdrop.  Indeed,  when 
Cooky  whispered  to  me : — "  They  think  we've  gone.  Suppose  we 
hook  it  ? "  I  assented  without  a  protest.  We  hooked  it,  and  I 
rushed  upstairs  to  put  my  head  in  cold  water  and  smooth  myself 
out  for  Society. 

So  long  ago,  and  all  the  memories  are  dim!  But  flashes  come, 
and  one  shows  me  a  moonlight  group,  visible  from  my  open  win- 


176  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

dow  over  the  stables,  of  two  persons,  who  do  not  interest  me, 
locked  in  each  other's  arms,  where  they  must  certainly  have  arrived 
with  the  suddenness  of  torrents  from  a  mountain  source,  as  de- 
scribed by  Tennyson  and  read  by  all  of  us.  So  Cooky's  insight 
into  the  position  had  been  shrewder  than  mine,  and  it  was  well 
that  it — whatever  it  was — had  been  hooked. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  rejoined  Society,  straightened  out,  I  was 
deeply  impressed  with  the  effrontery  of  that  couple,  who  were 
ignoring  one  another  at  different  ends  of  the  drawing-room,  the 
gentleman's  being  the  end  nearest  to  the  lady's  stepmother. 

Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  anticipate  what  followed  ?  I  think  not, 
so  far  as  concerns  my  sister  Roberta's  marriage.  I  appreciated 
the  position,  as  I  have  said,  but  without  anticipation  of  any 
substantial  result.  So  far  as  I  reflected  on  the  subject,  sur- 
mise was  in  favour  of  Anderson  -Grayper  sneaking  off,  as  Mr. 
Wickham  had  done.  That  hot  evening  in  The  Retreat  garden 
was  responsible  for  my  honouring  the  subject  with  any  reflec- 
tions at  all. 

But  I  am  quite  certain  that  the  signs  of  perturbation  in  Cooky's 
face  and  manner  produced  no  impression  on  me  at  the  time.  I 
was  to  be  puzzled  with  my  own  stupidity  at  not  interpreting 
them  right,  later  on. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  STOEY 

THAT  year  the  uncertain  climate  vouchsafed  to  these  islands 
was  at  its  best,  and  the  opening  days  of  June  brought  with  them 
a  burst  of  real  summer. 

Helen  Pascoe  lay  stretched  at  full  length  on  a  deck  chair  in 
the  garden,  at  The  Retreat.  She  was  exquisitely  dressed  and  she 
smiled  to  herself  as  she  opened  her  pretty  lace  covered  parasol 
to  shade  her  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  afternoon  sun.  "  Yes,  on 
the  whole,  she  had  played  her  cards  well !  "  And  her  thoughts 
travelled  back  over  the  weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  she  and  her 
husband  had  returned  from  their  honeymoon. 

Eustace  John  had  been  skilfully  managed  by  his  father,  and 
in  consequence  seemed  rather  proud  of  his  self-imposed  role  of 
champion  of  Jemima.  Ellen  and  Roberta  were  still  undeniably 
hostile  in  their  attitude  to  their  stepmother,  especially  the  latter. 
Gracey  was  not  so  bad.  Varnish,  Helen  disliked  and  feared,  but 
she  knew  it  would  be  hopeless,  not  to  say  perhaps  dangerous,  to 
attempt  to  get  rid  of  her — she  had  been  far  too  long  a  family 
institution  for  that.  Besides,  it  was  always  safer  to  let  sleeping 
dogs  lie,  and  in  this  particular  case  the  dog  had  no  teeth  to  bite 
with,  so  there  was  really  nothing  to  be  uneasy  about — Varnish 
could  not  hurt  her! 

During  the  past  few  weeks  the  newly  married  couple  had  dined 
out  a  good  deal.  The  invitations  at  first  given  somewhat  tenta- 
tively by  a  few  very  old  friends  of  Mr.  Pascoe's,  who  felt  they 
really  must  do  the  civil  thing  and  ask  them,  soon  took  on  a  dif- 
ferent complexion.  The  beautiful  bride  with  her  conciliatory, 
though  dignified  manner,  and  her  distinguished  appearance,  did 
not  lend  herself  to  adverse  criticism,  and  she  easily  took  her  place 
in  the  society  to  which  her  husband  belonged,  while  she  lost  no 
opportunity  of  extending  the  circle  of  their  acquaintance.  Soon 
there  would  be  return  dinners  to  be  given,  and  Helen  lay  dream- 
ing of  anticipated  social  triumphs. 

As  for  the  girls!  Why,  Ellen  and  Roberta  would  be  sure  to 
marry,  they  would  not  be  in  her  way  for  long!  They  both  had 
lovers  already.  Gracey,  the  youngest,  was  by  far  the  most  amiably 

177 


178  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

disposed  towards  her,  and  would  no  doubt  be  quite  all  right  if 
her  sisters  were  out  of  the  way.  Of  course,  she  was  far  less  likely 
to  marry  than  the  others  on  account  of  that  limp,  but  then  she 
might  be  made  very  useful  in  the  house  and  save  Helen  trouble! 
No,  the  prospect  for  the  future  was  none  so  bad  when  you  looked 
at  it  all  round!  And  Helen  smiled  again  to  herself. 

Have  you  ever,  you  who  read  this  story,  watched  the  sun  shin- 
ing and  glinting  on  the  unruffled  surface  of  a  deep  pool?  And 
have  you  ever  reflected  that  if  your  eye  could  pierce  down  into  the 
deep  depths  of  that  blue,  still  water,  what  hidden  horrors  you  would 
find  there.  Just  for  once,  take  your  microscope  and  study  the 
conditions  of  aquatic  or  insect  life,  and  you  will  find  it  a  hideous 
record  of  life  and  death  struggles,  of  murder,  and  ceaseless  strife. 
Yet  that  invisible  world,  seething  with  all  the  dire  cruelty  of 
which  nature  is  capable,  lies  concealed  under  that  smiling  surface 
of  water,  reflecting  the  serene  beauty  of  the  midday  sky. 

Five  o'clock  came,  and  with  it  the  servant  bearing  the  tea- 
tray.  Tea  was  to  be  in  the  garden  on  that  lovely  day,  so  the 
table  was  spread  and  the  chairs  brought  out. 

"  Where  are  the  young  ladies  ? "  asked  Helen  of  the  maid. 
"Tell  them  that  tea  is  ready." 

"  Miss  Elten  and  Miss  Gracey  have  been  out  all  the  after- 
noon; they  have  not  come  in  yet,  but  Miss  Roberta  is  in  the 
garden." 

What  was  there  in  this  simple  statement  that  it  should  make 
Mrs.  Pascoe  start  so?  The  parasol  fell  from  her  hand  in  her 
confusion,  knocking  over  a  tea  cup  and  breaking  it  into  a  dozen 
pieces.  Why,  she  had  thought  she  was  quite  alone!  and  she  cast 
an  almost  terrified  glance  round  the  garden. 

Yes,  sure  enough,  at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn  was  the  shim- 
mer of  Roberta's  white  dress,  and  from  among  the  rose  bushes 
peered  a  pair  of  burning  dark  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  her.  Yes, 
there  was  Roberta  watching  her  every  movement,  and  seeking 
to  pierce  her  innermost  thoughts,  and  Helen  shuddered,  and  turne-1 
sick! 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MOST  people  of  my  age,  who  had  embarked  on  an  undertaking 
to  write  all  their  recollections,  would  be  able  to  get  some  stim- 
ulus and  help  and  confirmation  from  the  memory  of  others.  I 
cannot.  All  my  contemporaries  of  that  date  are  dead,  or  dead 
to  me,  and  I  have  only  my  Self  to  refer  to. 

I  have  made  many  inquiries  in  that  quarter,  without  result, 
as  to  the  relations  of  my  father  with  his  family  connections  at 
Highbury  at  the  time  of  his  second  marriage  and  subsequently. 
I  have  tried  to  prevent  my  Self  indulging  in  guesswork,  but  I 
doubt  if  I  have  succeeded.  I  suspect  that  some  portion  of  the 
images  my  mind  forms  of  that  past  are  due  to  my  Self  alone, 
and  have  no  foundation  in  fact.  I  must  accept  them  now,  as 
they  stand,  for  I  only  get  bewildered  when  I  try  to  distinguish 
the  false  from  the  true. 

I  am,  however,  convinced  that  I  knew  more  than  any  of  the 
others  about  what  was  going  on,  except  perhaps  Gracey.  I  ascribe 
this  to  my  position  as  a  student.  Why  a  schoolboy,  even  if  he 
is  "  doing "  the  Epistles  of  Horace,  should  be  supposed  not  to 
be  paying  attention  to  what  goes  on  close  at  hand,  I  do  not  know. 
But  it  was  an  accepted  view  of  things,  or  seemed  to  be,  seen 
by  the  light  of  my  experience.  My  father  and  his  new  partner 
always  regarded  me,  I  am  sure,  as  too  deep  in  the  Classics  to 
overhear  chance  conversation  about  what  did  not  concern  me.  I 
might  not  have  done  so  if  they  had  never  shown  their  conscious- 
ness of  my  presence;  but  when  they  desired  secrecy,  they  dropped 
their  voices.  And  I,  being  human,  listened  against  my  will!  Of 
course,  I  did  so  under  a  covenant  with  Space,  to  stop  listening 
as  soon  as  I  heard  something  I  was  not  meant  to  know. 

Said  Miss  Evans — as  I  prefer  to  call  her,  seeing  that  I  never 
succeeded  in  thinking  of  her  as  Mrs.  Pascoe,  and  I  cannot  well 
speak  of  her  as  "  the  woman  my  father  married,"  every  time  I 
mention  her — one  evening  when  my  father  was  enjoying  his  pipe 
in  her  company,  and  I  was  deep  in  Julius  Florus  at  the  table 
near  the  window: — "I  feel  as  if  iL  were  all  my  fault." 

Said  my  father,  who  had  been  reading  a  letter  backwards  and 

179 


180  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

forwards,  as  one  reads  letters  that  perplex  or  annoy : — "  Stuff 
and  nonsense,  my  love!  What  had  you  to  do  with  the  Settle- 
ment?" 

I  saw  Miss  Evans  as  she  replied,  so  I  suppose  I  looked  round 
at  her.  Her  answer  was : — "  It's  a  feeling — no  more."  Her  face 
was  reposeful,  with  dropped  eyelids  and  still  lips  just  apart,  as 
she  stood  watching  the  fire  blaze  in  earnest,  for  this  must  have 
been  November  at  least.  Her  rich  throat  was  in  evidence,  for 
she  wore  her  chin  a  little  raised.  •  A  diamond  ring  I  knew  my 
father  had  given  her  flashed  in  the  firelight,  and  made  me  sav- 
age. I  am  satisfied  now  that  my  fits  of  resentment  against  Helen 
Evans  were  quite  unreasonable,  for  if  I  ever  knew  anything  against 
her,  it  came  to  my  knowledge  later — years  later.  And  even  as 
I  pen  these  words,  the  doubt  crosses  my  mind  whether  I  am  the 
right  person  to  cast  a  stone.  For  there  are  other  reasons  for 
withholding  censure  than  the  mere  fact  that  one  cannot  plead 
not  guilty  to  a  like  indictment.  I  may  live  to  write  the  explana- 
tion of  this  in  its  proper  place,  but  I  can  scarcely  promise  it 
in  view  of  the  doctor's  last  visit  to  me,  and  the  long  face  he 
pulled  over  his  auscultation,  yesterday. 

Let  me  get  my  father's  answer  written.  "  A  feeling  without 
a  foundation.  A  perfectly  groundless  feeling!  For  look  you! — 
how  many  years  was  that  blessed  Settlement  made  before  you 
turned  up;  you  and  your  hair  trunk?  Over  ten  years,  because 
Ellen  was  eight." 

"  Are  you  sure  Mr.  Wigram's ?  " 

"Accusations? " 

"  Well — accusations.  I  suppose  they  are.  Are  you  sure  they 
have  anything  whatever  to  do  with  the  Settlement  ? " 

"  Yes — certainly !  At  least,  in  this  sense — that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  Settlement,  Uncle  Frank  and  I  would  have  remained 
the  best  of  friends  to  this  day.  Sure  of  it !  " 

"  But  it  seems  too  unreasonable " 

"  Nothing  is  too  unreasonable  for  a  lawyer  who  is  a  Trustee 
of  his  sister's  marriage  settlement.  It  poisons  his  mind,  and 
makes  him  perfectly  unscrupulous  as  to  what  he  says  against  the 
— against  the  culprit." 

"  Meaning,  the '  I  don't  believe  I  looked  round  at  this 

point.  The  image  of  the  speaker,  puzzled,  which  comes  back  to  me, 
was  due  to  the  tone  of  her  words. 

"  Meaning  me,"  said  my  father.  "  when  it's  me — meaning  him, 
when  it's  him.  Meaning  the  male  factor  in  the  concern,  and 
treating  him  as  a  malefactor."  He  paused  a  moment  to.  tap  out 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  181 

the  ash  from  his  pipe,  then  added : — "  I  see  that's  a  pun,  now  it's 
too  late.  Never  mind !  " 

Said  Miss  Evans  then,  with  a  wrench  in  her  voice : — "  But  it's 
such  a  horrible  accusation  to  bring,  if  he  means  it."  She  in- 
tended this  for  my  father's  hearing  only,  but  the  wrench  brought 
her  voice  outside  her  intention.  I  affected  to  be  absorbed  in  Julius 
Florus,  and,  indeed,  went  the  length  of  looking  out  verna  in  Ains- 
worth,  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  not  listening.  Any  one  who 
cares  to  look  up  the  passage  can  find,  without  any  tax  on  his 
latinity,  that  I  was  not  getting  on  very  fast.  Certainly  it  was 
difficult  to  make  out  without  a  crib;  but  then  I  was  translating 
it  all  wrong,  so  that  goes  for  nothing. 

My  father  repeated  his  wife's  last  words,  with  a  serious  stress 
on  them.  "  //  he  means  it.  But  he  does  not  mean  it,  in  the 
ordinary  sense.  His  feelings  towards  me  are,  quite  unconsciously 
to  himself,  created  by  the  insidious  nature  of  his  Trusteeship. 
Can  any  one  seriously  suppose  that  any  human  idiot,  with  a  good 
heart  enough  as  hearts  go — because  that  describes  him,  very 
fairly — would  write  such  a  sentence  as  this  to  his  sister's  hus- 
band if  he  were  not  under  a  spell  of  some  sort.  No,  no! — it's  the 
Settlement.  That's  what  it  is."  I  heard  the  letter  handed  to 
the  lady,  by  its  rustle,  and  felt  that  she  looked  thoughtfully  at 
the  passage. 

She  must  have  forgotten  my  presence  for  the  moment,  for  she 
read,  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear : — "  I  have  no  hesitation  in  hold- 
ing you  morally  responsible,  whatever  the  legal  aspect  of  the  case 

may  be,  for  the  disastrous  consequences  of  a  neglect  which " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  saying,  "  What  ? "  as  though  my  father  had 
spoken,  which  he  had  not.  I  conceive  that  he  had  glanced  round 
significantly  at  me. 

Then  my  father,  as  though  to  test  the  degree  of  my  abstrac- 
tion, said  cheerfully: — "Well — how's  Horace?"  To  which  I  re- 
sponded:—"  Beastly  difficult  to  do.  What's  argilla?"  For  I  did 
not  see  why  I  should  not  utilize  sporadic  knowledge  to  save  a  ref- 
erence to  Ainsworth. 

My  recollection  of  this  incident — which  I  believe  I  have  recorded 
fairly — shows  me  why  I  knew  more  than  Gracey  what  was  going 
on,  and  I  know  she  knew  more  than  either  Ellen  or  Roberta.  Can 
I  recollect  the  letter  now  that  my  stepmother  proceeded  to  read 
aloud,  or  part  of  it?  I  can  try.  I  am  discouraged  at  the  outset 
by  a  failure  to  recall  how  it  opened — with  my  father's  name  or 
"dear  Sir."  But  I  am  sure  the  text  was  as  follows,  or  a  near 
equivalent : 


182  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  I  cannot  profess  surprise  at  the  news  of  your  recent  mar- 
riage, the  news  of  which  now  reaches  me  for  the  first  time,  but 
I  must  confess  to  some  astonishment  that  no  communication  has 
been  received  by  my  mother  or  myself  hitherto.  She  desires 
me  to  say  that  she  does  not  consider  any  expression  of  opinion, 
favourable  or  otherwise,  to  be  called  for  by  the  circumstances. 
She  therefore  abstains  entirely  from  comment.  At  the  same  time 
she  cannot  be  blind  to  the  fact  that  this  young  person,  whom 
you  have  put  in  the  place  of  my  late  lamented  sister,  was  for 
some  years  in  your  employment  as  a  governess,  and  she  wishes 
you  to  know  that  she  draws  the  same  inferences  from  the  fact  that 
the  World  will  draw.  For  the  same  reason  it  must  be  distinctly 
understood  that  she  will  not  consent  to  receive  her.  At  the  same 
time  she  is  prepared  to  overlook  her  connection  with  your  son 
and  daughters,  to  whom  this  does  not  extend,  as  they  are  in  no 
sense  responsible.  .  .  ." 

Then  followed  some  three  pages  of  which  I  can  recollect  noth- 
ing, except  that  the  style  was  well  maintained.  But  I  remem- 
ber the  peroration.  Here  it  is: 

"  It  is  my  painful  duty  to  add  that  I  consider  it  incumbent 
on  me  to  say  that  I  have  no  hesitation  in  holding  you  morally 
responsible,  whatever  the  legal  aspects  of  the  case  may  be,  for 
the  disastrous  consequences  of  a  neglect  which  only  terminated 
with  my  lamented  sister's  tragic  death." 

And  then  he  remained,  I  think,  my  father's  faithfully. 

That  exhausts  my  recollection  of  that  letter.  Julius  Florus 
was  undisturbed  for  the  rest  of  that  evening,  as  even  while  my 
father  was  supplying  me  with  the  English  for  argilla,  his  wife  an- 
nounced that  she  would  be  better  in  bed,  and  retired  for  the 
night.  "  Your  stepmother,"  said  my  father,  "  has  got  overtired. 
That's  all." 

I  felt  called  on  to  say  something,  and  began  it: — "I  thought 
Je " 

"  Mima,"  said  my  father. 

"  Was  looking  blue,"  said  I.  I  did  not  feel  revision  necessary, 
as  my  father  had  not  called  for  it.  I  devoted  myself  to 
Julius  Florus,  and  got  to  the  twentieth  line,  my  prescribed 
limit. 

I  was  not  a  little  surprised,  some  while  after — about  Christ- 
mas, I  think,  as  the  roads  were  slippery — when  my  father  ended 
up  a  conference  with  me  in  his  library  by  saying : — "  Very  good, 
human  schoolboy,  use  a  crib  as  much  as  you  like.  If  you  can 
make  out  why  it's  the  English  for  its  original,  you  will  do  quite 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  183 

as  much  as  can  be  expected  of  a  human  schoolboy.  Now  do  you 
know  what  you  have  got  to  do  on  Sunday  afternoon  ? " 

"  Skate  on  the  Serpentine,  if  it  freezes,"  I  said,  confidently. 
The  Serpentine  was  at  its  usual  tricks,  promising  to  freeze,  and 
thawing  suddenly  in  the  night. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  break  the  appointment  with  the 
Serpentine,"  said  my  father.  "  Because  you  are  to  accompany 
your  stepmamma  on  a  visit  to  Highbury.  But  it  can't  matter. 
Because  the  Serpentine  cannot  possibly  know  who  is  skating  on 
it." 

I  believe  I  said : — "  Hookey !  "  and  looked  my  curiosity  for 
further  particulars. 

•'  Why  hookey,  I  wonder?"  said  my  father,  thoughtfully.  He 
tried,  to  judge  by  his  look,  to  solve  me  as  a  problem,  and  to  stand 
me  over  as  temporarily  insoluble,  then  went  back  to  his  text. 
''  Yes — your  stepmamma  has  got  it  into  her  head  that  she  can 
make  peace  with "  He  paused  a  moment,  controlling  a  dis- 
position to  laugh.  "  What  was  it  Varnish  called  your  venerable 
Granny?  An  old ?" 

"  Old  Spitfire ! "  I  supplied  the  name  with  unscrupulous  en- 
joyment. 

"  Precisely ! "  said  my  father.  "  She  imagines  she  can  make 
peace  with  the  old  Spitfire — says  a  soft  answer  turueth  away 
wrath.  I  suppose  that  was  King  Solomon's  experience.  I  can't 
say  it  is  mine.  In  fact,  I  become  infuriated.  However,  that's 
neither  here  nor  there." 

"What's  she  going  to  say  to  her?  I  mean,  what  Miss 
Ev ?" 

"  That  won't  do — try  again !  No  objection  to  Jemima !  But 
not  'Miss  Evans.'" 

"  Well,  Jemima  then !  What's  Jemima  going  to  say  to  the 
Gran?" 

"  You'll  hear  when  she  says  it,  young  man.  That's  enough 
information  at  present  for  one  of  your  age  and  sex.  You'll  have 
to  do  without  endangering  your  life  on  rotten  ice  half-an-inch 
thick,  for  once." 

I  looked  lugubrious.  "  Suppose  it's  three  inches  thick,  and 
quite  hard,"  said  I,  "won't  Jemima  wait?" 

My  father  glanced  at  the  window.  "  I'll  give  you  that,"  said 
he.  "  If  the  ice  is  three  inches  thick,  Jemima  will  wait."  This 
meant — no  chance  for  the  skating! 

"  But  won't  Bert  or  Ellen  do  as  well  ? "  said  I,  ruefully. 

"  Those  young  women,  I  believe,  have  declined  to  go,  without 


184  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

thanks.  And  I'm  not  sure  that  if  they  do  go,  it  would  better  mat- 
ters. I  can  see  my  way  to  you  and  Gracey.  So  be  resigned  to 
your  hard  fate! " 

"All  right!"  said  I,  grudgingly.  But  resignation  turned  out 
an  easy  task.  For  the  Serpentine  only  froze  just  enough  to  keep 
the  ice  of  promise  to  the  ear,  but  broke  it  to  the  skate,  as  whoso 
ventured  thereon  that  Sunday  found  to  his  cost.  The  frost  itself 
continued ;  it  was  the  Serpentine  that  was  in  fault — sheets  of  water 
indulge  idiosyncracies.  The  roads,  were,  according  to  Thomas, 
mortally  slippery  when  he  drove  us  over  to  Highbury  in  the 
brougham. 

However,  we  got  there — my  stepmother,  Gracey,  and  myself. 
I  could  see  Gracey's  excitement  and  curiosity  in  her  blue  eyes 
as  we  approached  the  house;  and  I  felt  curious  too  about  the  out- 
come of  this  singular  visit,  which  I  believe  was  quite  unexpected. 
I  kept  a  furtive  eye  on  Jemima,  to  fathom  her  sentiments  if 
possible,  but  her  face  was  inscrutable.  She  was  looking  her  best, 
in  a  sealskin  wrapper  that  seemed  to  have  been  meant  for  her 
by  Destiny;  that  power  having  been  well-disposed  towards  her 
at  the  time.  I  suppose  that  my  frequent  peeps  at  her  equable 
face  made  me  analytical,  for  I  remember  attaching  more  weight 
than  usual  to  the  pretty  ripple  of  her  hair  over  the  white  fore- 
head it  half-hid,  and  also  thinking,  with  the  perverse  improba- 
bility of  a  boy's  mind,  that  if  my  ferocious  grandmamma  wanted 
to  scalp  this  intruder  in  her  family  circle,  her  opportunity  to  do 
so  would  be  all  that  Catlin's  North  American  Indians,  or  any 
one  else's,  could  desire.  Gracey's  anticipations  were  probably  less 
highly  coloured  than  this,  but  I  saw  her  sidelong  glance  at  the 
culprit — I  was  opposite,  of  course — and  almost,  in  a  sense,  saw 
her  wondering  at  the  oddity  of  the  situation. 

I  recall,  in  connection  with  this  drive,  that  it  was  the  first 
occasion  on  which  my  mind  accepted  and  ratified  yet  another 
mode  of  denominating  my  stepmother  than  Miss  Evans,  Jemima, 
or  Mrs.  Pascoe,  the  last  being  the  exclusive  property  of  Varnish. 
This  new  designation  was  not  one  absolutely  unused  in  the  early 
days  of  Mecklenburg  Square,  and  had  been  revived  as  a  con- 
venient solution  of  a  real  difficulty — what  Miss  Evans  was  to 
be  called  now  that  she  had  captured  the  citadel  our  mother  had 
hitherto  been  sole  mistress  of.  "  Mamma  "  was  quite  out  of  the 
question,  and  "  Miss  Evans  "  clearly  would  not  do.  Fancy  "  Good- 
night, Miss  Evans!"  at  bedroom-candle  time!  I  had  all  but  used 
it  once,  but  was  stopped  by  my  father's : — "  Com^  I  say,  Master 
Jackey,  draw  it  mild ! "  I  drew  it  mild  somehow,  but  chiefly  by 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  185 ' 

evading  nomenclature  altogether.  Jemima's  musical  laugh,  and 
"  Dreadful  boy !  "  on  that  occasion,  are  with  me  still,  for  all  the 
lifetime  that  has  come  between. 

"  Aunt  Helen,"  said  Gracey,  using  this  revived  epithet,  when 
we  got  out  of  the  noisy  traffic,  "  What  do  you  think  Grandmamma 
will  say?  " 

"  My  dearest  child,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

I  supplied  a  prediction^  of  an  unfeeling  nature.  "  She'll  trem- 
ble all  over  with  fierceness,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  Jackey — however  can  you  ? "  said  my  sister,  and  our 
stepmother  turned  a  glance  towards  me  that  was  as  much  amused 
as  shocked.  "  Boys  will  be  boys,"  said  she,  "  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  Wait  till  you're  eighty,  young  man !  "  I  set  up  a  par- 
tial defence,  saying : — "  Other  people  are  eighty,  just  as  much 
as  her,"  meaning  thereby  that  all  octogenarians  were  not  tiger- 
ish. I  was  thinking  of  old  Mr.  Wardroper,  our  predecessor  at 
The  Retreat. 

I  had  never  been  at  my  grandmamma's  villa  since  my  mother's 
death,  nor  had  any  of  my  sisters.  On  returning  to  it  I  was  im- 
pressed by  the  way  it  had  maintained  its  identity,  having  had  no 
experience  of  how  our  own  lives  may  be  turned  upside  down 
without  the  rest  of  the  world  taking  the  slightest  notice;  and  I 
felt  nettled  at  the  trim  front  garden  and  the  well-cleaned  win- 
dows, the  long  flight  of  stone  steps  up  to  the  front  door,  fault- 
lessly hearthstoned,  sanded  now  with  golden  sand  for  safety,  in 
keeping  with  the  dazzling  polish  of  the  brass  knocker  and  letter- 
box flap  they  resulted  in.  I  felt  quite  reproachfully  towards 
the  more  than  emerald-green  dovecot  on  a  post  in  the  stable- 
yard,  seen  across  the  trellis  that  was  as  nothing  now,  but  that 
I  knew  would  be  white  with  jasmine  in  six  months.  I  remem- 
ber looking  at  it  as  we  paused  on  the  expanse  of  stone  landing 
we  had  climbed  to,  following  by  permission  or  invitation  the 
unimpeachable  white  apron-tie  of  a  flawless  housemaiden  who 
had  opened  the  garden  gate.  I  resented  that  dovecot's  stolid  insen- 
sibility, which  almost  made  a  parade  of  ignoring  my  mother's 
death.  I  was  unreasonably  outraged  by  the  tone  of  its  inhabi- 
tants' conversation,  merely  because  it  was  exactly  the  same  as 
two  years  since.  I  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  Rab,  the  rough 
Pomeranian,  who  came  out  to  smell  us,  and  appeared  to  go 
back  into  the  house  to  say  we  were  all  right  as  far  as  smell 
went.  But  he  had  always  done  so,  and  he  annoyed  me  by 
making  no  difference  between  Miss  Evans  and  my  mother.  "  Rab  " 
was  an  abbreviation,  not  of  the  Scotch  for  Robert,  but  of  Rabies. 


186  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Not  that  he  was  mad,  but  in  connection  with  a  picturesque  prac- 
tice of  my  uncles,  who  christened  animals  after  the  most  formi- 
dable disorders  to  which  they  were  liable.  Thus  the  coach-horses 
who  lived  under  that  dovecot  were  respectively  Staggers  and 
Glanders,  although  neither  was  suffering  from  either  calamity. 
Also  my  grandmother's  canary,  a  treasured  favourite,  had  been 
christened  Pip;  most  unfairly,  as  it  was  a  robust  bird,  not  sub- 
ject to  indisposition. 

"  Shan't  we  go  in,  Aunt  Helen  ? "  said  Gracey,  when  that 
pause  on  the  top  step  was  ten  seconds  old. 

"  Hush  a  minute,  Gracey  dear!"  said  Aunt  Helen,  listening 
to  sounds  of  colloquy,  between  docile  acquiescence  and  splenetic 
exasperation,  within.  The  flawless  one,  after  letting  us  in  with 
a  gate-key  she  went  back  for — for  she  had  deemed  us  a  mistake 
until  she  had  attestation  to  the  contrary — had  preceded  us  into 
the  house  as  a  harbinger,  admitting  that  it  might  be  desirable 
to  get  the  authority  of  headquarters,  which  were  In,  but  not  Up. 

Gracey  and  I  were  disconcerted — though  I  was  not  sure  she 
was  not  relieved,  too — when  the  owner  of  the  white  apron  came 
back  dejected;  all  her  edge  taken  off,  I  supposed,  by  the  extreme 
violence  of  the  old  Spitfire.  How  she  communicated  to  my  step- 
mother that  Mistress,  though  In,  and  nearly  Up,  was  quite  clear 
that  she  would  not  see  Mrs.  Nathaniel  Pascoe,  I  do  not  know,  as 
I  did  not  catch  her  words,  but  Gracey  understood  them,  and  ex- 
claimed: — "There,  Aunt  Helen,  didn't  I  say  so?  I  knew  she 
wouldn't." 

"Then  we  can't  help  it,  can  we,  my  dear?"  said  Aunt  Helen. 
She  was  fishing  in  a  mother-of-pearl  card-case  with  a  silver  // 
inlaid,  to  get  at  a  conciliatory  offering,  a  submerged  card  of 
my  father's — the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter,  the  soft  answer  to 
turn  away  wrath — when  I  perceived  at  the  garden-gate  my  Uncle 
Sam,  looking  prosperous  and  rosy,  and  well-shaven  for  Sunday, 
lie  had  arrived  in  a  curricle  with  two  horses,  and  an  enormously 
heavy  fancy  coachman's  overcoat,  with  buttons  like  saucers,  and  a 
lining  like  the  fur  of  a  buffalo. 

"  You  tool  the  prads  up  and  down  till  I  tell  you,  little  Foundlin'," 
he  was  saying,  to  the  minute  groom  attached  to  his  chariot,  whose 
peculiar  name  had  been  bestowed  on  him  in  honour — or  dishonour 
— of  his  parents,  who  had  neglected  the  precaution  necessary  to 
Establish  their  family's  legitimacy.  At  present,  so  said  my  Uncle 
Sam. 

"  Oh — it's  your  other  uncle,"  said  my  stepmother.  This  meant 
that  she  knew  him  much  less  than  his  brother.  Indeed,  she  can 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  187 

have  seen  but  little  of  either,  all  told;  but  she  certainly  knew 
most  of  Uncle  Francis. 

Now  my  Uncle  Sam  and  Gracey  had  always  been  in  each  other's 
good  books.  Therefore,  Gracey  greeted  him  affectionately  and 
started  towards  the  garden-gate  to  meet  him. 

I  saw  he  looked  pleased,  the  more  that  he  forthwith  assumed 
his  good-humoured  manner;  a  sort  of  lazy  drone  with  as  few 
accents  as  possible,  and  no  consonants  to  speak  of.  "  Oozish  a 
com'nalong?"  is  the  best  spelling  can  do  for  his  reception  to 
Gracey.  But  one  can't  spell  drowsiness,  especially  when  it  is 
a  parti  pris.  The  upshot  of  his  greeting  to  her  was: — "Who  is 
this  coming  along?  Who  is  the  grown-up  young  lady?"  To 
which  Gracey  replied: — "Me!" — and  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck.  I  endorsed  her  testimony,  saying: — "It's  us."  He  acknowl- 
edged Gracey's  accolade  with : — "  Now  another,  t'other  side  where 
there's  no  plaster !  "  presenting  an  intact  cheek.  He  pulled  my 
nose  slightly,  not  to  seem  unconscious  of  me.  As  he  did  so,  I 
saw  him  looking  furtively  at  Jemima,  who  was  putting  her  card- 
case  away. 

Now  this  uncle  of  mine  perceived  in  the  genus  Woman — so 
says  my  memory  of  him — two  distinct  species,  the  sort  with 
nonsense  about  it,  and  the  sort  without.  Perhaps  nonsense  did 
not  mean  decorum,  but  it  must  have  meant  something  akin,  by 
the  contexts  he  used  with  it.  They  were  odd,  and  often  difficult 
to  follow.  I  remember  hearing  him  say,  in  contrasting  the  quali- 
ties of  two  sisters,  that  one  of  them  might  have  been,  a  parson's 
daughter,  for  the  matter  of  that,  while  the  other  was  distinctly 
a  ripping  female,  without  a  scrap  of  that  sort  of  nonsense  about 
her.  I  am,  and  was,  in  the  dark  about  the  exact  value  of  his 
terminology;  but  of  this  I  am  sure,  that  he  would  not  have  hit 
it  off,  as  the  phrase  goes,  with  the  former  of  these  two  young  ladies ; 
while  it  would  have  stood  a  poor  chance,  whatever  it  was,  of 
remaining  on  between  himself  and  the  latter.  I  connect  a  cer- 
tain awkwardness,  or  shyness,  in  the  presence  of  all  young  ladies, 
that  he  betrayed  on  first  introduction,  to  his  uncertainty  as  to 
which  of  these  species  the  sample  presented  belonged  to. 

My  impression  is,  that  he  had  this  feeling  about  Jemima.  I 
gathered  that  her  appeal  to  sentiments  of  his  class  had  gained 
force  by  a  greater  latitude  in  dress  than  her  position  as  a  gover- 
ness had  allowed  her,  to  say  nothing  of  the  moral  effect  upon 
her  of  her  new  position.  For  he  said  to  Gracey,  sotto  voce,  while 
his  eyes  rested  perceptively  on  the  rather  distinguished  figure 
that  was  now  halfway  down  the  paved  approach  from  the  gate 


188  OLD  MAX'S  YOUTH 

to  the  door: — "Who's  the  lady  swell,  Sixpence?  Your  new  thing- 
ummybob  ? "  The  name  he  called  my  sister  by  was  a  private 
one,  only  in  use  by  himself  and  his  brother. 

"  It's  our  stepmother,  Miss  Evans,"  said  Gracey,  making  up 
for  a  loud  whisper  by  dramatic  play  of  the  countenance.  Then 
she  tried  to  throw  out  an  apologetic  word  or  two.  "  She  isn't 
really  nasty,  you  know,  Uncle  Sam." 

I  may  have  caught  his  comment,  half -spoken  to  himself,  wrongly. 
It  sounded  like: — "Where's  the  governess?"  I  treasured  in  my 
mind  an  intention  to  say,  if  appealed  to,  that  Jemima  was  rather 
a  brick.  No  opportunity  occurred  for  the  production  of  this 
testimonial.  For  Jemima  was  upon  us.  She  was  perfectly  at 
her  ease,  while  my  uncle  was  distinctly  embarrassed.  At  the 
time  I  accepted  this  embarrassment  as  one  that  he  would  hare 
betrayed  equally  in  the  presence  of  any  other  young  lady  of  showy 
exterior. 

Her  hand  came  out  to  shake  his  as  soon  as  the  card-case  was 
disposed  of;  not  before.  The  delay  accentuated  her  deliberation, 
and  gave  the  concession  value.  I  think  she  also  strengthened 
her  position  by  taking  preliminary  greetings  for  granted,  saying 
merely  with  a  slight  shrug  and  eyebrow-action : — "  Driven  away, 
Mr.  Sam!"  which  perhaps  laid  claim  to  a  familiarity  she  was 
not  entitled  to.  I  was  aware  that,  somehow,  she  had  made  a 
friend  of  my  uncle. 

I  could  not  understand,  with  my  boyish  perceptions,  how  the 
possessor  of  so  perfect  a  silk  hat  as  his  could  be  got  over  so 
easily.  The  beauty  and  newness  of  its  inside  was  impressing  me 
as  he  held  it,  doffed  to  salute  the  lady,  well  out  of  the  way  of  my 
heedlessness,  or  Gracey's.  I  could  see  the  line  it  had  left  on  his 
forehead,  for  his  complexion,  which  was  fair,  showed  marks. 
"You  don't  say  that  now,  Mrs.  Pascoe?"  said  he,  and  this  clear 
use  of  her  name  seemed  to  improve  relations  still  further. 

"Indeed  I  do,  Mr.  Sam!  Obliged  to  fly  the  country!"  She 
glanced  slightly  towards  the  house,  and  the  glance  seemed  to 
convey  enlightenment.  For  Uncle  Sam  said: — "Old  lady  been 
cuttin'  up  rough — is  that  it?"  And  both  laughed.  I  then  be- 
came aware  that  our  visit  had  not  come  to  an  end,  though  I 
could  not  guess  how  events  meant  to  work.  I  felt  very  curious. 
"  I  haven't  seen  her,  you  know,"  she  added.  "  She  sent  out  word. 
I'm  one  of  the  sinners,  I'm  quite  aware  of  that,  but  why  these 
two  children?  " 

Unr-l^  Snm  did  not  consider  the  last  word  spoken  clearly.  "  Old 
lady'll  firzle  down,"  he  said.  "  On'y  give  her  timel  She  hasn't 


189 

had  time."  His  lazy  insouciant  speech  ignored  the  aspirates,  but 
I  cannot  omit  them  in  writing,  as  a  want  of  culture  is  connected 
with  dropped  H's.  Now,  although  Uncle  Sam  was  not  highly 
cultured,  that  was  not  the  cause  of  his  H-droppings,  which  were 
a  parti  pris,  adopted  to  show  the  extent  of  his  indifference  to  his 
topic.  He  could  not  be  at  the  trouble  to  aspirate  H's  about  trifles! 
That  was  the  implication. 

'•  Oh,  Mr.  Sam,  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  I  fear  she  has  a 
strong  character." 

"  Not  the  old  lady.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  her.  She's  a  bit 
of  an  old  Turk  at  the  first  go-off,  as  often  as  not.  But  she'll 
fizzle  down." 

"  And  meanwhile ?" 

"  Supposin'  we  was  to  go  inside ! " 

"Ought  we  to?" 

"  On  a  Sunday?  I  always  do  everythin'  I  oughtn't  to  on  a 
Sunday.  So  does  little  Sixpence,  I  lay."  He  tickled  Gracey,  who 
was  holding  his  arm.  She  said : — "  Oh — Uncle  Sam !  "  remon- 
stratively.  He  then  suggested  that  we  should  all  go  into  a  side 
room,  which  he  had  somehow  monopolized,  so  that  it  was  known 
to  the  household  as  Mr.  Sam's  room.  "You'll  be  able  to  hear 
the  old  lady  swearin'  at  a  distance,"  said  he,  as  an  inducement. 

"  How  kind  you  are,  Mr.  Sam !  "  said  my  stepmother.  "  And 
you  really  think  she'll  soften?" 

"  You  see  if  she  don't !  "  said  my  uncle  in  his  laziest  way.  "  Git 
along  in,  you  two  brass  f ardens !  "  What  he  then  did  reminds 
me  how  long  ago  this  was.  He  offered  his  arm  to  my  step- 
mother, who  made  use  of  it.  In  those  days  one  met  with  sporadic 
survivals  of  a  belief  once  universal,  that  you  should  always  offer 
your  arm  to  a  lady.  It  was  an  article  of  faith  with  Varnish. 
Whatever  manners  my  Uncle  Sam  had  that  were  not  his  own 
invention  had  been  instilled  into  him  by  my  grandmother,  who 
was  eighty  at  about  this  period.  He  may  have  been  thirty-six, 
being  the  youngest  son  of  a  large  family. 

It  is  rather  singular  that  I  should  retain  so  vivid  a  recollection 
of  this  encounter  with  Uncle  Sam  at  the  front  gate,  and  have 
such  a  poor  memory  of  what  followed.  We  went  into  the  Pigsty — 
my  uncle's  designation  for  his  sanctum — and  sat  by  a  blazing 
fire  listening  to  the  sounds  of  a  distant  collision  between  my 
uncles  and  their  old  mother.  I  drew  inferences  from  its  pauses 
and  cadences.  Uncle  Sam  was  endeavouring  to  influence  the 
old  lady  towards  a  reconciliation,  partly  from  contradictious- 
ness,  partly  from  the  effect  which  a  good-looking  woman  has  on 


190  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

a  man  of  his  type,  when  sufficiently  showily  dressed.  I  remember 
the  place,  the  blazing  fire,  the  voices,  and  my  certainty  of  their 
general  import,  but  cannot  supply  the  connecting  links  with 
what  followed.  The  scene  changes  in  my  mind  to  my  grand- 
mother's drawing-room,  where  she  sits  in  her  high-backed  chair 
by  another  blazing  fire,  which  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles  flash 
back  the  more  vividly  that  the  day  without  is  dying  prematurely 
of  a  fog.  Facing  her  is  my  stepmother,  seated  and  looking  her 
best;  perfectly  cool  and  collected,  I  must  say.  My  Uncle  Sam  is 
lounging  on  a  sofa  midway,  with  Gracey  on  its  margin  leaning 
against  his  waistcoat.  My  memory  takes  cognizance  of  my  Uncle 
Francis's  back,  in  the  middle  window,  I  think,  and  the  inter- 
mittent movement  of  his  head  either  way  to  bring  alternate  nos- 
trils to  bear  on  a  double-barrelled  pinch  of  snuff.  What  I  can- 
not determine  is  where  I  myself,  who  see  it  all,  am  in  the  room. 
Does  it  matter? 

My  granny  is  justifying  to  the  full  my  forecast  of  her  atti- 
tude. She  is  trembling  all  over  with  fierceness.  But,  although  I 
can  see  it  in  her  old  hand  on  the  chair-leather  from  where  I 
am — wherever  that  is — it  is  not  evident  in  her  voice.  I  can  re- 
member her  voice,  but  not  the  words  it  said.  I  have  to  recon- 
struct them. 

"  I  have  intimated  to  you,  Mrs.  Pascoe — as  I  suppose  I  must 
call  you — that  I  desire  not  to  see  you.  My  son  Francis  has  already, 
at  my  request,  written  my  reasons  for  refusing  to  receive  you.  I 
do  not  consider  myself  bound  to  add  one  word  to  what  I  have 
already  said.  But  I  have  given  way  to  the  wish  of  my  son  Fran- 
cis, and  also  my  son  Samuel " 

Her  son  Samuel  interrupted  her,  saying  three  times  distinctly: — 
"Don't  bring  me  in — don't  bring  me  in — don't  bring  me  in!'1 
lying  back  on  the  sofa  and  shaking  his  head  with  his  eyes  shut. 
He  ended  up : — "  I  ain't  in  it,"  and  I  suspect  pinched  or  tickled 
Gracey,  to  express  alliance  aside,  as  she  entered  some  protest 
sotto  voce. 

My  grandmother  resumed  what  I  was  pleased  to  call  her  jaw. 
I  believe  I  reconstruct  it  fairly.  "  I  have  given  way  to  my  son's 
wish  that  I  should  see  you — whatever  my  son  Samuel  may  say 
to  the  contrary — for  you  to  know  from  my  own  lips  my  opinion 
about  your  husband's  shameful  neglect  of  my  daughter  in  her  last 
illness  ..."  My  stepmother  showed  signs  of  interrupting,  and 
the  old  lady  caught  her  up  tartly.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  any- 
thing you  have  to  say,"  she  said,  and  my  stepmother  murmured 
deprecatorily : — "  Oh,  is  this  just  ? " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  191 

My  Uncle  Sam,  without  unclosing  his  eyes,  expressed  sympathy. 
"  Dairmed  unjust,  I  should  say,"  said  he.  "  But  just — you — sit — 
still,  and  let  the  old  lady  work  it  off." 

This  colloquy  had  slipped  in,  while  the  old  lady  was  already 
working  it  off.  "  Nothing  that  you  say  can  alter  my  opinion 
that  my  daughter  was  the  victim  of  gross  negligence,  and  that 
her  husband  was  responsible  for  that  negligence.  You  can  tell 
him  from  me  that  I  hold  him  morally  guilty  of  murder.  My  son 
Francis  minces  matters  like  a  poltroon,  and  refuses  to  write  as 
I  direct  him.  Yes — I  tell  you  it  is  so.  I  am  in  his  power,  for 
how  can  I  write  myself,  when  I  cannot  hold  a  pen  ? " 

My  Uncle  Francis  protested;  weakly  as  I  thought  then,  and 
still  think.  "  Come,  I  say,  Mother ! "  it's  as  much  as  I  can  depose 
to.  Uncle  Sam  remarked,  placidly,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  firing 
that  was  going  on : — "  Old  lady's  pitchin'  it  rather  strong.  But 
I  ain't  in  it." 

My  stepmother,  whose  breath  I  conceived  had  been  taken  away 
by  the  sudden  vigour  of  the  old  Spitfire's  attack,  recovered  it  and 
turned  to  Uncle  Sam.  "  Surely,  Mr.  Samuel,  you  can  never  be- 
lieve such  a  horrible  accusation." 

"  I  ain't  in  it,"  said  Uncle  Sam. 

The  old  lady  stood  to  her  guns.  "  Samuel  and  Francis,  you 
may  shuffle  out  of  it.  You  may  turn  tail,  and  leave  your  old 
mother  to  tell  the  truth.  But  you  know  what  you  have  said  of 
your  sister's  death " 

"  What  have  we  said  ? "    I  think  both  spoke. 

"  You  know  what  you  have  said  of  this  Miss  Evans  woman.  In 
this  room!  Yes — here!" 

Uncle  Samuel  looked  amused,  and  Uncle  Francis  embarrassed. 
The  latter  took  more  snuff  into  one  nostril  than  was  usual  with 
him,  as  though  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  to  the  next  nostril  until 
this  difficulty  was  disposed  of.  The  former  had  the  impudence  to 
say,  addressing  his  brother : — "  What  have  you  been  a-sayin'  about 
Mrs.  Pascoe,  Frank?  Out  with  it!  Don't  bottle  it  up!" 

I  hope  the  dim  recollection  I  have  of  the  old  lady  at  this  moment 
is  wrong.  For  she  turns  fiercely  on  her  eldest  son  and  says: — 
"  Answer  your  brother !  " 

"  If  you  are  going  to  pay  any  attention  to  Samuel,  I  shall  let 
it  alone."  Thus  Uncle  Francis,  still  keeping  the  other  nostril 
waiting,  as  a  consentaneous  action  with  the  halt  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

Uncle  Sam  exaggerated  his  drony  manner  in  harmony  with  a 
continuous  shake  of  the  head,  to  say : — "  Don't  you  expect  to  get 


192  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

out  of  it  that  way,  Frank!  What  have  you  been  a-sayin'  about 
Mrs.  Pascoe?  That's  the  point.  You  keep  to  the  point,  my  good 
fellar!"  He  then  remarked  aside  to  my  stepmother: — "Nothin' 
like  keepin'  these  legal  characters  to  the  point.  Slippery  lot  they 
are!" 

Perhaps  the  accusations  against  my  stepmother  were  repeated, 
or  insinuated,  and  I  did  not  understand  them.  For  I  only  remem- 
ber what  presents  itself  now  to  me  as  meaningless  altercation  until 
my  stepmother  says : — "  What  does  it  matter  what  Mr.  Frank 
or  Mr.  Samuel  have  said  about  me?  We  all  say  angry  things 
that  we  are  sorry  for  afterwards,  sometimes.  I  can  forgive  any- 
thing that  has  been  said  against  myself,  although  I  grieve  that 
any  one  I  respect — for  I  do  respect  you,  dear  Mrs.  Wigram " 

"  Don't  call  me  '  dear,' "  snapped  the  old  lady. 

My  stepmother  went  on  without  noticing  the  interruption. 
u  That  any  one  I  respect  should  believe  such  malicious  nonsense. 
But  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  dreadful  charges  brought  against  my 
dear  husband,  knowing  as  I  do — and  how  can  any  one  know  better — 
how  utterly  and  cruelly  false  they  are.  I  came  here  today,  dear 
Mrs.  Wigram  " — the  old  lady  snorted — "  to  try  and  influence  you 
towards  a  more  charitable  judgment  of  him.  I  came  in  the  face 
of  your  prohibition,  and  I  ask  you  only  to  hear  me.  Remem- 
ber that  I  was  there  the  whole  time " 

My  Uncle  Francis  interrupted.  "  I  think  that's  fair,  Mother." 
said  he.  "  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Pascoe's  travelling  outside  the 
record."  He  always  used  any  legal  phrase  that  came  to  hand, 
and  I  think  felt  thereby  like  Counsel,  or  at  least  Amiens  Curiae. 

"  I  am  silent,"  said  the  old  lady,  savagely.  "  But  I  retain  my 
opinion."  She  became  a  grim  monument  of  determination  not 
to  be  convinced. 

My  stepmother  continued:  "I  was  there  during  the  whole  of 
my  dear  employer's  " — her  voice  wavered  and  threatened  tears — 
"  last  sad  illness,  and  I  am  sure  I  can  tell  you — if  you  will  hear 
me — what  will  convince  you  that  there  was  no  neglect." 

Uncle  Francis  interjected,  professionally: — "I  think  we  are 
bound  to  hear  Mrs.  Pascoe's  statement."  My  grandmother  said 
inexorably: — "It  will  not  change  my  opinion."  Uncle  Sam  said 
something  under  his  breath  that  I  did  not  catch,  but  afterwards 
Gracey  assured  me,  that  at  this  juncture  he  had  said: — "Go  it 
one,  go  it  t'other!"  I  can  easily  believe  it. 

I  believe  that  I  am  supplying  a  good  deal  of  this — writing  what 
must  have  been  said,  to  supplement  what  I  heard,  and  remember. 
I  know  that  I  cannot  write  "  Mrs.  Pascoe's  statement,"  as  she 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  193 

spoke  it,  but  I  can  give  its  substance.  On  the  night  of  the  tragedy, 
she  had  been  the  last  person — so  she  said — to  look  in  at  my  mother's 
room  before  the  discovery  that  the  patient  had  taken  that  fatal 
double  dose  of  laudanum.  She  could  vouch  for  the  fact  that 
the  bottle  that  contained  it  was  safe  on  the  chimney-piece,  at 
a  great  distance  from  the  bed.  She  had  noticed  this  particularly, 
though  she  did  not  go  further  than  the  door  of  the  room,  for  my 
mother  had  said  she  was  then  quite  comfortable.  She  was  not 
sleepy,  but  she  wanted  to  lie  quiet,  and  not  to  have  people  fussing 
in  and  out,  but  the  boy  might  come  in,  to  say  good-night.  The 
medicine  glass  was  on  the  table  by  the  bed,  but  she  was  quite 
certain  there  was  nothing  in  it.  If  any  living  creature  was  to 
blame  for  what  happened  it  was  she,  the  deponent  herself,  for  not 
entering  the  room  and  removing  the  medicine  bottle  still  further 
from  the  patient.  But,  candidly,  would  any  of  her  hearers  have 
done  so,  under  the  circumstances? 

"  We  shall  have  to  give  Mrs.  Pascoe  the  benefit  of  that,"  said 
my  Uncle  Francis,  who  was  gradually  becoming  a  cross-examiner, 
with  legal  acumen,  as  well  as  snuff  visible  in  every  twitch  of  his 
nostril.  "  Eh,  Mother  ?" 

i  My  granny  took  no  notice  of  this,  but  fixed  a  basilisk  glance  on 
my  stepmother.  "  How  do  you  know  you  were  the  last  person 
to  look  into  the  room  ? "  she  said. 

"  Oh — how  do  I  know  ? "  was  the  response,  which  I  remember 
clearly  enough,  given  as  though  the  speaker  was  really  distressed 
with  a  suspicion  that  she  might  have  taken  the  fact  for  granted 
rashly.  But  she  recovered,  saying : — "  Oh,  but  I  am  sure  that  I 
was!" 

u  Why,  of  course,  you  were,  Aunt  Helen,"  struck  in  Gracey, 
looking  very  white,  but  not  overwhelmed,  and  seeming  to  under- 
stand the  points  at  issue.  "  As  if  I  wasn't  there  in  the  house 
all  the  time!" 

I  also  testified.  "  Nobody'd  been  in  when  I  was  there,"  I 
said,  giving  as  a  certain  fact  what  was  really  only  my  own  strong 
conviction.  Older  folk  than  I  have  done  the  same,  before  now. 

My  Uncle  Sam  seemed  to  accept  a  moment's  silence  as  a  con- 
fession of  public  conscience  that  this  topic  should  not  have  been 
mooted  before  us  youngsters.  For  he  said,  with  severity: — "  There, 
now  you  seel  Talkin'  before  these  kids!  What  did  I  say  to  you? 
I  only  ask,  what  did  I  say?  Why,  of  course,  the  kids  are  takin* 
notice,  and  mean  to.  You  ain't  a  baby,  little  Sixpence!  "  Gracey 
confirmed  this,  saying: — "  No,  I'm  not.  At  least,  I  shall  be  almost 
directly.''  My  Uncle  proceeded: — "  It's  no  use  your  tellin'  me!  If 


194  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

you  talk  before  a  young  lady  that's  nearly  out,  you'll  just  have 
to  take  the  consequences.  Makin'  believe  they  are  in  the  nursery! 
But  I  wash  my  hands." 

"Perhaps,"  said  my  stepmother,  "I  did  wrong  to  bring  them 
with  me.  It  was  my  husband's  wish  that  they  should  come."  It 
occurred  to  me  then,  and  I  see  it  clearly  now,  that  my  father 
thought  of  me  and  Gracey  as  possible  buffers  between  his  bride 
and  the  storm  of  indignation  she  was  likely  to  encounter.  I 
doubt  if  he  anticipated  our  taking  part  in  the  probable  melee,  only 
meaning  that  our  presence  should  serve  as  a  check  on  the  opera- 
tions of  the  enemy.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  he  made  the  usual 
mistake  of  underestimating  our  years,  as  parents  do.  They  for- 
get that  their  children  are  no  longer  in  the  nursery,  until  some 
rough  revelation  of  their  maturity  brings  it  home  to  them.  Under 
this  delusion  he  had  assented  to  my  stepmother's  importunity  that 
she  should  attempt  to  carry  an  olive-branch  into  the  hostile  terri- 
tory, sheltered  by  the  youth  and  inexperience  of  the  rising  gen- 
eration the  project  was  intended  to  benefit. 

But  he  was  reckoning  without  his  host  in  this  calculation  that 
we  could  be  present,  and  yet  be  kept  outside  active  operations. 
For  Gracey,  whom  I  suppose  to  have  been  far  ahead  of  me  in 
her  perception  of  the  realities  of  life,  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth, 
and — however  faulty  the  metaphor  may  be — flared  up. 

"I  don't  care,  Uncle  Sam,"  said  she,  responding  to  some  dis- 
suasion undetected  by  me,  "  I'm  not  a  baby  and  I  ivill  speak.  Dear 
Mamma  got  at  the  horrible  medicine  herself  " — here  the  poor  child 
broke  into  passionate  tears — "  and  took — and  took  it  herself — twice 
as  much  as  was  meant  on  the  bottle — and  it  killed  her — and  it's 
cruel  and  wicked  to  say  that  it  was  any  fault  of  Papa's.  I  don't 
care — I  tell  you  it  is.  Why.  it  was  miles  off,  the  bottle  was !  Aunt 
Helen  saw  it — she's  told  you  so " 

I  think  I  recollect  that  at  this  point  my  Uncle  Frank  said  in  a 
dry,  disagreeable  way : — "  Yes — Mrs.  Pascoe  has  told  us  so,  cer- 
tainly," and  his  mother  turned  on  him  sharply,  with : — "  Hold 
your  tongue.  Frank,  till  you're  asked  to  speak ! "  To  which  he 
replied: — "  Very  good — I'm  out  of  it,"  and  became  morosely  silent. 

My  stepmother  said  in  a  quick,  parenthetical  way,  as  a  fact 
just  due  to  herself  to  mention : — 4<  The  bottle  was  on  the  mantel- 
shelf near  the  washstand,  quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
No  one  could  have  imagined  it  possible."  Possible,  that  is  to 
say,  that  my  mother  should  get  up,  ilj  as  she  was,  and  cross  the 
room  to  get  at  this  bottle.  It  did,  indeed,  seem  a  thing  no  one 
could  have  foretold.  But  she  had  done  it.  For  there  was  the 


195 

attestation  of  the  last  person  who  had  looked  into  the  room,  until 
3  entered  it,  when  my  father  told  me  to  do  so,  and  was  presently 
alarmed  at  her  silence  and  the  coldness  of  her  hand  and  the 
bed.  1  fancy  I  remember  writing  of  this  some  time  since. 

I  recollect  my  grandmother's  eyes  fixed  on  Gracey,  through 
her  gold  spectacles,  with  what  I  thought  an  appreciative  look  in 
them.  "  Yes,"  said  she,  speaking  to  my  stepmother,  "  you  did 
wrong  to  bring  the  children  with  you.  What  did  you  expect? " 

Then  to  my  Uncle  Sam : — "  What  are  you  saying  to  the  girl, 
Samuel?  Send  her  over  to  me."  Whereupon  Gracey,  who  told  me 
afterwards  my  uncle's  words,  "  Never  you  mind  the  old  lady.  You 
stick  up  to  her !  "  crossed  over  to  her  grandparent  rather  reluc- 
tantly, who  examined  her  face  carefully,  and  came  to  a  con- 
clusion. "  You're  a  Brewster,"  said  she,  and  for  a  full  two  seconds 
I  imagined  this  an  epithet  of  condemnation  or  censure ;  but  it  was 
only  her  own  maiden-name,  which  I  had  always  known  as  a  fact, 
but  had  never  visualized.  It  had  been  in  some  knowledge-box  whose 
key  I  had  lost.  She  surprised  me  by  saying: — "Kiss  me,  child! 
You  do  right  to  take  your  father's  part.  My  sons  are  different." 

I  have  an  impression  that  Uncle  Sam's  comment  on  this  was: — 
"  Must  kick  somebody !  "  Uncle  Frank  stopped  to  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders, halfway  through  several  milligrammes  of  snuff,  and  then 
absorbed  the  balance  curtly.  He  seemed  resentful,  while  his 
brother  didn't  seem  to  care. 

A  kind  of  truce  seemed  to  come  about  over  the  impropriety  of 
thrashing  out  the  point  before  us  youngsters.  But  the  joy  of 
battle  had  gone  out  of  intercourse,  and  Gracey  and  I  felt  our- 
selves wet  blankets — at  least,  I  did.  I  was  forming  an  opinion  that 
my  mother's  family's  modus  vivendi  was  dissension,  and  it  matured 
later. 

This  was  not  the  end  of  the  conversation,  but  it  was  the  last 
I  can  report  of  it.  For  Gracey  and  I  retired  by  request  into 
Uncle  Sam's  pigsty,  and  had  candles,  not  to  be  in  the  dark.  We 
listened  to  the  voices  in  the  other  room,  with  comments,  as  thus: 

"That's  Jemima." 

"Yes— that's  Aunt  Helen." 

"  She's  stopped — No  she  hasn't  .  .  .  Yes,  she  has  .  .  .  Now 
that's  Gran." 

"Yes— that's  Grandmamma.  .  .  .  That's  Uncle  Sam,  inter- 
rupting." An  apparent  collision  was  followed  by  a  lull. 

"She's  shut  him  up.  Isn't  she  a  one-er!  ...  I  say — what 
a  long  innings  she's  having!  " 

"  Now  she's  done.    I  thought  she  sounded  civiller.    Who's  that  ? " 


196  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Only  Uncle  Francis.  He'll  work  her  up  again.  .  .  .  Now 
Tie's  got  shut  up,  and  that's  her.  .  .  .  No — she's  just  the  same 
fierceness." 

"  Isn't  that  Aunt  Helen  crying?  " 

"  I  betted  she'd  blub  before  they'd  done."  This  was  untrue, 
taken  literally.  I  had  laid  no  wager. 

"  I  thought  she  would.     /  call  it  a  shame." 

"  That's  the  whole  lot,  all  together.  They're  going  it !  They'll 
go  on  all  night,  at  that  rate." 

"No,  they  won't!  There's  Granny  on  the  top.  .  .  .  Now  I 
think  I  can  hear  them  stopping.  .  .  .  Only  they've  begun  again." 

"  You  see,  if  they  don't  go  on  all  night." 

"No — I'm  right!  They're  dying  down.  .  .  .  Yes — Aunt 
Helen's  coming  out.  Uncle  Sam's  being  civil." 

"Why  can't  Uncle  Francis  be  civil?" 

"  He's  got  some  idea.     Besides,  he's  a  lawyer." 

"  I  don't  see  that  that  counts.  ...  I  say,  I  hope  they  are 
shutting  up.  What'll  the  Governor  say  about  keeping  Thomas's 
mare  so  long  in  the  cold  ?  " 

And  so  on.  However  they  did  shut  up,  in  the  end,  and  Gracey 
and  I  were  sent  to  say  good-night  to  our  grandmother. 

My  stepmother  was  reticent  about  any  actual  or  possible  results 
of  the  interview,  Thomas  drove  us  home  over  slippery  roads 
through  a  dense  fog.  and  we  got  to  The  Retreat  very  late  and 
found  my  father  just  on  the  point  of  starting  off  to  discover  and 
rescue  us,  Heaven  knows  where  or  how. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

SOMETHING  was  "brewing,  that  hot  summer  night  in  the  garden, 
that  I  am  sure  I  was  writing  about  not  so  very  long  since — only 
I  can't  hunt  it  up  now — between  my  sister  Roberta  and  Mr. 
Anderson  Grayper,  and  it  was  not  a  quarrel.  It  occurs  to  me  that 
hot  summer  nights  dwell  vividly  in  the  memory,  for  how  clearly 
I  recollect  that  one  a  year  before  when — as  I  am  convinced — my 
father's  treaty  with  Miss  Evans  was  ratified.  History  repeated 
herself  in  this  case,  and  I,  schoolboy  that  I  was,  did  not  lay  her 
first  recitation  to  heart,  or  I  should  have  been  less  unprepared  for 
her  second. 

But  then  it  was  a  sister!  The  idea  never  crossed  my  mind  that 
one  of  those  inferior  creatures  should  take  the  bit  in  her  teeth, 
and  bolt  in  harness  with  a  male  outsider,  who — strange  to  say — 
possessed  absolutely  no  charm  for  her  younger  brother!  Why 
should  the  second  marriage  of  a  father — who  of  course  knew  all 
about  marrying,  having  done  it  before — suggest  the  possibility  of 
such  an  outrageous  new  departure  on  the  part  of  a  sister? 

Let  me  recall  the  story  as  best  I  may.  I  shall  refer  to  many 
events  of  the  time  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  because  any 
of  these  may  strike  a  precious  lode  of  memory,  and  bring  back 
things  of  ten  thousand  times  more  importance  than  themselves. 

Roberta  kept  her  own  counsel  about  her  intentions,  and  Mr. 
Grayper's.  I  am  sure  she  did,  though  I  cannot  conceive  why  my 
father  should  not  have  been  taken  into  the  confidence  of  either, 
unless  indeed  she  made  use  of  her  love-affair  as  an  object  lesson,  to 
emphasize  her  resentment  of  my  father's  marriage  with  Miss 
Evans,  especially  with  reference  to  the  clandestine  character  of 
their  wedding,  and  her  own  exclusion  from  its  programme. 

Jemima  would  have  done  more  wisely  to  make  her  a  bridesmaid. 
Then  she  might,  or  might  not,  have  made  that  weak  young  man 
the  partner  of  her  joys  and  sorrows.  If  it  had  been  shown  that  she 
was  really  longing  for  it,  I  cannot  imagine  that  my  father  would 
have  offered  any  serious  opposition  to  their  union.  He  was  far 
too  good-natured  to  do  so,  on  any  grounds  but  the  proposed  son- 
in-law's  moral  character,  or  his  probable  poverty.  As  to  the  former, 

197 


198  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

he  was  visibly  blameless ;  while,  as  to  the  latter,  he  was  certain  of  a 
partnership  in  the  brewery — You  know  ?  "  Grayper's  Entire."  He 
was  that  Grayper — and  his  mother  was  one  of  the  Brewers  of 
Milldale.  But  he  had  a  turn  for  the  Drama,  and  I  suppose 
Roberta  had  another;  a  common  ground  of  sympathy.  It  was, 
strangely  enough,  for  most  of  two  years  accepted  by  both  families 
as  a  sufficient  pivot  for  friendship  to  turn  upon;  and  indeed  it  is 
possible  that  Roberta  only  discovered  that  she  loved  the  young 
man  as  soon  as  the  idea  occurred  to'  her  of  making  him  the  stalk- 
ing horse  of  Retributive  Justice;  a  means  towards  effectual  con- 
demnation of  her  father  and  stepmother.  Whether,  in  doing  so, 
she  was  cutting  off  her  nose  to  spite  her  face,  opinions  may  differ. 

It  does  not  matter  now.  Grayper  has  been  dead  twenty  years; 
finally  worried  to  death,  said  Gossip,  by  his  third  wife.  Bert  has 
been  in  her  grave  near  half  a  century,  and  underneath  the  oak 
coffin  containing  his  second — she  herself  having  been  treated  to  a 
leaden  one — for  this  last  twenty  years.  I  have  asked  my  Self  in 
vain  where  or  when  we  heard  this  fact.  We  did  not  go  to  the 
funeral  of  my  sister's  successsor. 

I  never  mentioned  to  any  of  my  family  the  embrace  of  these 
lovers,  that  I  detected  in  the  moonlight,  but  once,  and  then  I  was 
met  with  such  incredulity  that  thereafter  I  remained  silent,  even  to 
my  father. 

The  occasion  was  a  meeting  of  the  Club,  Varnish  being  present 
as  a  sort  of  favoured  guest.  Allusion  had  been  made  to  the  fre- 
quency of  Roberta's  interviews  with  Mr.  Grayper  in  connection 
with  an  approaching  winter  season  of  the  Roehampton  Rosciuses. 
But  there  had  been  no  hint  of  a  suspicion  that  there,  "  was  any- 
thing," and  I  think  I  felt  insincere — the  possessor,  as  it  were,  of 
a  sort  of  guilty  secret  knowledge,  that  itched  for  publicity. 

"  I  say,  Varnish,"  I  began,  "  I  saw  her  and  him  ki "  A 

powerful  hand  stopped  the  revelation.  "  You  shut  up,  little  But- 
tons !  "  said  Cooky,  with  decision. 

Said  Gracey : — "  Now,  Monty,  what  nonsense !  Why  isn't  Jackey 
to  speak  ?  It's  only  us.  Besides,  he'd  got  as  far  as  '  kis,'  and  I  can't 
see  what  difference  it  can  make  if  he  does  say  '  sing.'  " 

"  All  right,  little  Buttons !  Go  ahead."  Cooky's  docility  to  my 
sister  was  absolute. 

"  Kissing,"  I  shouted,  all  the  more  emphatically  that  I  had,  as  it 
were,  public  sanction.  "Kissing — kissing — kissing!  What  were 
they  kissing  for,  if  it's  not  to  count?"  I  then  added  particulars 
of  time  and  place. 

Varnish  took  exception  to  the  accuracy  of  my  observation.    "  Of 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  199 

course  it  would  count,  supposin'  they  did  it,  Master  Jackey.  But 
supposin'  you  see  wrong !  " 

"  How  far  off  had  you  to  see  ? "  said  Gracey.  I  enlarged  upon 
the  subject,  giving  figures.  Gracey's  earnest  eyes  calculated 
thoughtfully.  "  You  couldn't  see  persons  kissing,  as  far  off  as  that," 
said  she. 

"  Oh  yes,  but  I  did,"  said  I.  "  I  could  have  seen  them  miles 
further  off.  Kissing !  Both  of  them !  " 

"  What  I  look  at,  to  go  by,"  said  Varnish,  "  is  them  when  there's 
company.  Why  they  would  be  downright  artful,  to  behave  so 
strict !  Just  nothing  beyond  civil,  7  call  it."  This  referred  to  the 
attitude  of  the  culprits  in  the  drawing-room,  after  the  fact. 

"  That's  only  their  rot,"  said  I,  forcibly. 

Varnish  shook  her  head,  unconvinced.  "  When  it's  a  young  lady 
and  gentleman,  you  can  always  tell,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  you  ridiculous  boy,  Jackey,"  said  Gracey,  "  can't  you  see  it 
was  theatricals?  They  are  always  doing  theatricals." 

I  believe  that  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  that  it  was  too  great 
a  tax  on  human  credulity  to  suppose  that  heartwhole  embraces  by 
moonlight,  in  loneliness,  could  be  ascribable  solely  to  a  dispassionate 
study  of  the  Thespian  Art.  But  my  vocabulary  failed  me,  and  I 
preferred :— "  That's  bosh !  " 

"  You're  a  silly  boy,  Jackey,"  said  Gracey.  And  so  weak  was  the 
moral  influence  of  my  testimony,  that  neither  she  nor  Varnish 
attached — or  at  least  admitted  that  they  attached — the  slightest 
weight  to  it. 

As  for  Cooky,  he  simply  maintained  a  profound  silence.  Be- 
cause, you  see,  he  knew  all  about  it. 

Varnish  was  quite  accurate  when  she  described  the  public  atti- 
tude of  these  secret  inamorati  as  nothing  beyond  civil.  I  believe 
that  Mr.  Grayper  was  acting  under  orders,  and  that  he  would  have 
preferred  to  confess  up,  and  have  an  ascertained  position.  But 
Bert  had  her  motives;  and,  with  her,  concealment  was  a  parti  pris. 
She  went  beyond  passive  non-confession,  giving  out  that  she  had 
understood  that  Mr.  Grayper  was  engaged  to  a  Miss  Pollexfen, 
which  was  so  decisive  a  name  that  it  nipped  inquiry  in  the  bud. 
Further,  she  assigned  this  engagement,  which  was  an  unblushing 
fiction,  as  a  reason  for  being  quite  at  ease  in  her  intercourse  with 
Mr.  Grayper.  I  used  to  wonder  how  Miss  Pollexfen  contrived  to 
do  without  so  much  of  the  young  gentleman's  society.  More 
especially  as  he  could  never  get  away  from  the  Brewery  till  five 
o'clock. 

Nevertheless,   shadow   as   I   am   almost  certain   she  was,   Miss 


200  OLD  MAX'S  YOUTH 

Pollexfen  acquired  a  certaiu  amount  of  credence  in  the  family  cir- 
cle. I  think  her  reputation  for  existence  was  helped  by  the  rest- 
less vanity  of  its  members,  none  of  whom  would  admit  that  they 
knew  absolutely  nothing  about  her  beyond  her  name.  My  father 
may,  however,  have  been  actuated  by  a  desire  to  allow  his  second 
daughter  every  latitude  of  choice  among  little  boys  to  play  with. 
As,  for  instance,  when  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  discerning  afar  that  dear 
girl  Bertie,  with  her  admirer  firmly  pinned  to  her  apron  strings, 
exclaimed  most  suceulently,  "But  who's  the  swain?"  my  father 
remarked,  as  to  a  confederate,  "  Nothing  there.  .  .  .  Oh  no !  I 
know  about  it!  He's  engaged  to  a  Miss  Pollexfen.  That's  all 
right !  "  Whereupon  the  good  lady,  baffled  in  her  spring,  discerned  a 
new  source  of  social  stage  business,  exclaiming: — "  No — now  really! 
— That  is  interesting.  I  wonder  which  Pollexfens."  My  step- 
mother, who  was  present,  refused  to  be  behindhand,  saying  with  a 
puzzled  air,  "  Oh,  don't  you  know — those  Pollexfens — Eccles- 
thorpe ;  "  and  seemed  to  think  that  a  rapid  movement  of  her  fingers 
would  revive  some  forgotten  particulars  about  this  family,  of 
which  I  don't  believe  any  particulars  ever  were,  or  ever  had  been 
forthcoming. 

However,  this  visionary  young  lady  was  of  service  in  deflecting 
the  Mrs.  Walkinshaws  of  our  visiting  list  from  the  scent  of  a  love 
affair.  I  doubt  if  "  the  swain  "  had  the  technical  art  required  to 
draw  such  a  red-herring  across  its  track  in  the  case  of  his  own 
family.  For  his  mamma  and  his  grandmamma  called  stiffly,  with 
intent.  It  can  only  have  been  to  express  their  own  attitude  towards 
a  proposed  measure  which  was  not  yet  developed  enough  to  war- 
rant discussion  on  a  first  reading.  But  they  seem  to  have  relied 
on  the  subject  being  mooted  by  the  other  party,  and  the  other 
party  kept  silence.  Indeed,  so  long  as  my  father  did  not  inaugurate 
it,  no  one  else  felt  warranted  in  doing  so,  and  his  uniform  principle 
was  to  hold  his  tongue  on  all  delicate  topics.  This  one  might  have 
been  indirectly  approached  by  an  inquiry  after  the  Miss  Pollexfen, 
but  she  was  too  shadowy  even  for  that.  The  visit  fell  flat,  and  an 
attempt  at  parting  to  constitute  its  reality  by  cries  of  gratification 
fell  flatter  still.  Delighted  anticipations  of  quick  and  frequent  re- 
currence of  the  phenomenon  were  so  very  unwarranted. 

Therefore,  it  fell  out  that  my  legend  of  the  kissing  was  dis- 
credited by  all  who  heard  it;  and  indeed,  an  idea  grew  that  what- 
ever other  couple  might  be  in  danger  from  the  darts  of  Love,  this 
one  was  safeguarded  against  them.  The  Miss  Pollexfen  was  an 
effectual  one,  in  this  case,  and  nobody  anticipated  the  result  that 
came  about  some  weeks  after  the  garden  incident. 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  201 

One  day  Koberta,  who  had  gone  away  by  herself  early  in  the 
day,  did  not  return  as  anticipated.  She  had  refused,  somewhat 
curtly,  my  stepmother's  offer  to  convey  her  to  her  destination  in 
the  brougham,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  quite  in  another  direction, 
and  that  she  could  not  wait  so  long,  wishing  to  arrive  early.  She 
would  shift  for  herself.  Roberta  was  always  very  independent 
in  her  movements, 

I  believe  the  truth  dawned  on  me  first,  partly  because  I  knew  I 
was  right  about  the  kissing,  partly  because  since  my  father's 
marriage  I  had  got  into  the  way  of  suspecting  that  any  single 
person  or  persons  who  failed  to  appear  at  lunch  or  dinner,  as 
might  be,  had  gone  to  the  Altar.  But  it  did  not  dawn  upon  me 
when  she  defaulted  that  day  at  lunch,  because  she  had  gone — 
report  said — to  the  Flinders  Cortrights'  at  St.  John's  Wood  to  play 
croquet,  and  she  was  sure  to  stop  for  lunch,  though  she  had  spoken 
of  being  back.  Nor  at  dinner,  because  public  opinion  decided  that 
she  had  stopped  on.  "  Oh  nonsense,  my  dear,"  said  my  stepmother 
to  my  father.  "  What  a  fidget  you  are!  As  if  Roberta  wasn't  able 
to  take  care  of  herself !  " 

"But  something  may  have  happened,"  said  my  father,  uneasily. 
"  Of  course  anything  may  have  happened.  What's  to  prevent 
it?  Only  nothing  has — you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Nothing  ever 
does  happen  when  one  gets  in  a  stew.  It's  all  thrown  away.  So 
now  carve  the  hare  and  be  contented."  Whereby  my  father  was 
silenced  but  not  convinced.  Also,  the  cook  had  left  the  hare's  head 
on,  in  defiance  of  past  requests,  and  this  threw  the  previous  ques- 
tion off  the  line. 

The  older  the  evening  grew  without  the  sound  of  cab-wheel?  in 
The  Retreat,  the  firmer  became  the  conviction  that  Roberta  had 
stopped  on.  Reasoning  was  held  sound  that  determined  that  if 
anything  had  happened  we  should  have  heard  of  it  by  now.  a 
fortiori  as  now  came  to  mean  more  and  more  half-hours  gone  for 
ever.  Until  at  last  my  father  revolted  against  further  self-delusion, 
and  sent  for  a  hansom.  The  brougham,  I  remember,  was  for  the 
moment  disqualified  for  service,  owing  to  some  trifling  mishap  in 
the  morning. 

"  Mayn't  I  come  too  1 "  said  I,  when  the  hansom  had  opened  its 
jaws  to  receive  my  father.  He  assented,  provided  I  looked  alive. 
I  looked  alive,  and  forthwith  we  were  on  our  way  to  St.  John's 
Wood;  naturally  the  first,  because  the  only,  clue  to  my  sister's 
whereabouts. 

I  can  lie  here,  fifty-five  years  later  than  that  mysterious  ftarlit 
windy  night,  and  recall  the  silent  streets  as  our  cab-horse,  informed 


202  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

by  its  driver  of  the  amount  its  fare  had  promised  if  he  got  over 
the  ground  in  twenty  minutes,  threw  his  whole  soul  into  promoting 
the  interests  of  his  master.  I  see  again  the  lonely  policeman  on  his 
beat,  becoming  aware  of  a  case  of  alcoholism  that  can  sing,  across 
the  street,  and  wondering  probably  whether  that  case  will  last  out 
his  own  term,  and  remain  a  negligible  quantity  of  beeriness,  until 
he  can  leave  him  as  an  inheritance  to  his  relief,  and  go  off  duty. 
Or  that  other,  shutting  his  eyes  to  midnight  in  consideration  of  a 
bribe,  outside  the  half-closed  pothouse  where  that  beeriness  blos- 
somed into  song.  And,  in  all  the  ride,  not  a  hundred  yards  of 
pavement  without  its  woman-outcast,  whose  meaning  my  boyhood 
had  hardly  come  to  the  knowledge  of.  The  wind-blown  street-lamp 
at  one  corner  flickers  still  for  me  on  a  face  that  it  lighted  up  for 
one  moment  as  we  whirled  across  the  canal-bridge  at  Maida  Vale, 
and  I  wonder  still  whether  the  water  was  deep  enough  to  drown  her 
and  give  her  rest  and  nothingness.  Over  fifty-five  years  ago,  at 
this  hour  of  writing !  But  I  did  not  know  then  why  she  looked  so 
greedily  at  the  water. 

My  father  had  hardly  spoken  throughout  the  eighteen  minutes — 
for  the  horse  earned  that  five  shillings  for  his  master,  nobly — 
but  had  sat  with  a  rigid  face  and  a  bitten  lip,  and  an  impatient 
movement  now  and  then.  He  only  just  got  clear  of  the  wheel, 
in  his  haste  to  get  down  and  ring  the  bell  at  Grove  Villa,  which 
was  the  Flinders  Cortrights'.  That  bell  jangled  perfunctorily,  but 
nothing  came  of  its  first  temperate  suggestions. 

"  All  gone  to  bed !  "  said  my  father.  "  Give  'em  a  minute." 
They  had  it,  but  showed  no  sign  of  life.  A  second  more  thrilling 
appeal,  and  a  pause  for  results.  "  They're  coming  now,"  said  he, 
listening. 

They  came,  in  the  form  of  an  old  woman  who  lurched,  who 
could  not  hear,  and  would  not  open  the  garden  gate,  preferring  to 
speak  through  a  cast  iron  lattice  work  of  a  pretentious  design  in. 
its  upper  panels.  Yes — that  was  Mrs.  Cortright's,  but  the  family  was 
away  in  the  Islands,  or  Highlands,  as  might  be.  She  added  what 
seemed  irreconcilable  with  reason,  that  she  herself  was  Mrs. 
Perquisite,  the  caretaker,  and  in  bed,  but  could  take  a  message. 
It  seems  odd  now;  to  think  how  almost  impossible  it  would  be  to 
find  out  what  her  name  really  was,  if  one  had  a  mind  to  try. 

My  father  accepted  the  name  as  I  write  it  now.  "  Well ! — 
open  the  gate,  Mrs.  Perquisite,  and  listen  to  what  I  say,  and  you 
shall  have  this  shilling."  The  gate  was  opened.  "  Now  tell  me — has 
a  young  lady  been  here  today  to  play  croquet?  With  other  young 
ladies  of  course." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  203 

But  Mrs.  Perquisite  could  not  answer  this  question  without  a 
clear  understanding  as  to  what  game  the  young  lady  had  come  to 
play  at.  She  treated  the  subject  as  though  several  young  ladies 
had  been  there  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  play  at  several  games 
— football,  say,  or  chess,  or  lansquenet.  She  required  an  identifica- 
tion of  the  game  of  croquet,  before  she  could  give  a  final  answer. 
My  father  had  the  misfortune  to  confuse  her  by  saying,  "  With 
balls.  .  .  .  On  the  lawn — With  mallets !  "  rather  impatiently.  I 
think  she  confused  the  last  word  with  malice.  It  led,  however,  to 
a  decisive  negative,  founded  on  a  conviction  that  no  young  lady 
that  came  there  would  ever  play  at  sech.  Her  disposition  would 
be  too  sweet. 

"Has  any  young  lady  been  here?"  said  my  father,  severely,  to 
clinch  the  matter.  Well — no! — since  my  father  put  it  that  way, 
and  no  discrimination  of  games  was  needed,  Mrs.  Perquisite  was 
in  a  position  to  say  boldly  that  no  young  lady  had  come  anigh  that 
house  since  the  family  departed  for  the  Islands  or  Highlands. 
Mrs.  Perquisite  received  her  shilling,  and  my  father  and  I  fled  in 
the  cab,  which  awaited  us.  He  told  the  driver  to  make  for  a 
police-station  between  us  and  home — Marylebone,  I  think — and 
when  we  arrived  there,  went  in  to  interview  the  inspector  on  duty, 
leaving  me  in  the  cab.  It  was  during  his  absence  that  I  began 
to  associate  my  sister's  disappearance  with  Mr.  Anderson  Grayper. 
The  idea  made  my  mind  much  easier  about  her,  for  though  I  do  not 
suppose  I  ever  felt  any  anxiety  comparable  to  my  father's,  I  had 
paid  Roberta  the  compliment  of  feeling  more  concern  about  her 
welfare  than  it  had  ever  occurred  to  me  to  feel  before.  I  had 
even  gone  as  far  as  a  misgiving  that  to  go  snugly  to  a  bed  and 
sleep  upon  such  an  unsolved  mystery  would  be  in  a  sense  sinful, 
but  this  abated  now,  and  I  looked  forward  to  a  normal  night's  rest 
based  on  a  theory  that  pointed  to  everything  being  all  right 
somehow.  As  to  whether  such  a  rash  step  would  lead  to  happiness 
or  otherwise,  that  was  Bert's  lookout,  not  mine. 

I  think  if  I  had  had  the  slightest  idea  of  the  nightmare  pos- 
sibilities that  my  father  was  conjuring  up  about  his  missing 
daughter,  I  should  have  spoken  out  freely  about  this  surmise,  and 
eased  his  mind.  But  I  could  only  have  advanced  it  as  a  pure 
conjecture  of  my  own,  and  I  could  not  remember  any  recent  inci- 
dent that  pointed  to  such  a  thing,  to  give  his  speculations  a  list 
in  the  same  direction. 

I  heard  almost  nothing  of  his  interview  with  the  police  inspector. 
Coming  out  from  the  station  door  with  him,  the  latter  said  without 
emotion : — "  You  may  rely  on  everything  being  done  correct, 


204  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Mr. " — I  thought  he  was  never  going  to  remember  his  name — 

"  — Pascoe.  Full  particulars  will  be  despatched  at  once  to  our 
head  office,  and  in  a  few  hours  they  will  have  them  at  every  station 
in  London.  I  shouldn't  be  the  least  uneasy,  if  I  was  you."  And 
I  saw  that  this  official  assurance — though  it  left  matters  exactly 
•where  they  stood  before — really  acted  as  an  anodyne  to  my  father's 
anxiety.  I  am  sure  that,  as  we  scoured  away  through  the  now 
almost  empty  streets,  he  felt  that  something  had  been  done — 
something  practical,  correct,  effectual!  Nothing  had. 

As  for  me — though  really  I  write  with  mistrust  about  my  own 
feelings,  so  little  do  I  remember  them  as  compared  with  the  vivid- 
ness of  surrounding  event — I  looked  forward  to  finding,  on  our 
return,  that  some  tidings  had  come  to  throw  light  on  the  mystery, 
probably  in  the  sense  of  the  theory  I  had  framed  to  account  for  it. 

But  no  news  had  arrived.  I  can  still  see  the  frightened  faces  that 
came  out  to  learn  the  most  unsatisfactory  result  of  our  expedi- 
tion— can  still  hear  the  despairing  exclamations  that  greeted  it. 
What! — Never  at  Mrs.  Cortright's  at  all!  Were  we  sure?  Which 
Cortright  did  we  see?  Who  told  us^  And  so  forth — a  torrent  of 
exclamation  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a  brief  presentation  of  the  empty 
house  and  its  abortive  curatrix. 

What  then  were  we  to  do?  Where  could  we  go  to  find  out? 
What  activity  could  we  exercise  to  soothe  our  souls  into  the  belief 
that  we  were  doing  something  effectual  ?  There  lies  the  sting  of 
the  sudden  blank  a  simple  disappearance  leaves  in  a  great  city. 
Let  a  dweller  in  some  mountain  village  fail  to  find  his  home  at 
night,  and  in  a  trice  his  kith  and  kin,  and  half  the  dwellers  nearby 
are  on  his  track,  and  dogs  that  know  their  errand  as  well  as  their 
masters,  or  better,  are  baying  from  ridge  to  ridge,  discounting  a 
triumph  that  is  sure  to  come.  Let  a  wanderer  in  the  Australian 
bush  vanish  from  eyes  that  watch  for  his  return  in  vain,  are  there 
not  the  black  trackers,  whom  such  of  us  may  follow  as  are  swift 
of  foot,  to  cherish  the  delusion  that  we  too  are  factors  in  the 
search  ?  But  in  a  great  city,  where  he  whom  we  seek  has  become 
one  of  an  unseen  swarm,  even  this  self-deception  is  at  fault,  for 
want  of  a  clue.  Nothing  is  left  but  to  bear  our  intolerable  souls  as 
best  we  may,  and  go  mad  for  a  next  minute  to  come  which  may 
have  pity  in  its  heart. 

No  respite  came  to  my  father  all  through  that  miserable  night. 
I  lay  and  listened  to  his  restless  pacing  to  and  fro  in  his  own  room, 
until  its  monotony  soothed  me  to  sleep,  in  despite  of  an  unreason- 
able conviction  of  the  dutifulness  of  lying  awake.  Once  asleep, 
Morpheus,  who  didn't  care  twopence  what  became  of  my  sister,  saw 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  205 

to  Oblivion  for  me.  I  never  woke,  until  the  voice  of  Varnish  came 
before  her  into  my  room  and  roused  me : — "  There  now,  Master 
Eustace,  now  what  will  you  say  when  you're  told  ? " 

My  answer  was  incoherent.  It  belonged  to  a  conversation  in  a 
dream,  with  some  sort  of  shellfish. 

"You  wake  up,  young  Squire!"  Varnish  shook  me,  to  hasten 
matters.  "  When  you're  quite  woke'll  be  plenty  of  time  to  hear  the 
news." 

"  No — I  say — what  is  it  though,  Varnish?  Stop  humbugging!  " 
That  is  to  say — a  truce  to  pleasantry!  Get  to  the  point! 

"  Your  sister  Miss  Roberta,  Master  Eustace !  " 

I  suddenly  became  wide  awake,  and  sat  up  in  bed  with  my 
knees  up  to  my  chin.  "  Jiminy  Cracks !  "  I  said,  obscurely.  "  What 
was  it  ?  "  Last  night's  events  had  come  back  to  me. 

"  Your  sister  Miss  Roberta,  Master  Eustace,  she's  gone  and 

got  herself  married  to "  Varnish  paused,  to  enjoy  her 

climax. 

But  I  spoiled  it  for  her.  "  That  Ass  Anderson  Grayper !  "  said 
I.  "  Is  that  all  ?  I  don't  see  that  that  matters." 

"  Law  now,  Master  Eustace,  on'y  think !    Your  sister's  a  Mrs." 

"Much  I  care!" 

"  You  unfeeling  boy,"  said  Gracey,  coming  in.  "  You  ought 
to  be  thankful  it's  no  worse." 

"If  only  he  wasn't  such  an  Ass !"    I  paused  regretfully. 

"But  how  ever  come  you  to  guess  right?"  said  Varnish. 

"As  if  I  didn't  know!"  said  I,  scornfully.  "/  knew,  fast 
enough." 

"  Then  you  should  have  up  and  said  so,  Master  Eustace." 

"  I  don't  see  that.    Besides,  it  wasn't  that  sort  of  knowing." 

Analysis  of  niceties  in  knowledge  was  averted  by  my  father's 
voice  from  afar: — "  When's  that  boy  coming  down?  Breakfast's 
just  ready."  Which  sent  my  visitors  away  for  me  to  hurry  my 
things  on. 

My  father  looked  still  worried,  but  on  the  whole  relieved.  "  Give 
him  the  letter  to  read  for  himself,"  said  he  to  my  stepmother,  after 
a  curt  announcement  of  Roberta's  escapade.  She  remarked,  "  What 
—the  boy !  "  but  as  he  replied,  "  Yes ! — the  boy.  Why  not  ?  "  she 
handed  me  the  letter.  This  is  my  nearest  recollection  of  it. 

"PiER  HOTEL,  FOLKESTONE. 

"  MY  DEAR  PAPA:  I  write  this  that  you  may  not  be  uneasy  about 
what  has  become  of  me.  I  am  married  to  Mr.  Anderson  Grayper, 
and  you  will  probably  be  applied  to  by  the  newspaper  people  to 


206  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

verify  the  advertisement.    I  have  no  time  for  more  now,  as  we  have 
to  catch  the  boat. 

"  I  wish  to  say  that  this  arrangement  has  been  my  own  wish 
entirely,  and  that  my  husband  is  not  responsible.  If  you  wish 
for  an  explanation,  1  will  tell  you  my  reasons.  Only  1  think  you 
will  understand  without.  They  have  been  the  same  as  other 
people's. 

"  Do  not  give  my  love  to  Miss  Evans,  only  to  Ellen  and  Grace  and 
yourself,  and  believe  me, 

"  Your  affectionate  daughter, 

"KOBERTA  GRAYPER. 

"  P.  S.    And  the  Boy.    And  Varnish  of  course." 

I  recollect  that  they  all  seemed  curious  about  what  I  should 
say,  and  waited ;  Gracey  only  beginning,  "  What  does  she  mean 

by ?"  and  being  stopped  by  my  father.  "Don't  give  Master 

Jackey  any  tips!  "  said  he.  "Let's  hear  him  on  his  own  hook!  " 

"  /  know  what  she  means,"  said  I,  somewhat  resenting  the  sug- 
gestion that  tips  would  have  any  influence.  "  She  means  by  '  verify 
the  advertisement.'  Of  course  that  means " 

"  No  I  didn't,"  said  Gracey.  "  I  meant  by  '  other  people's.'  Who 
does  she  mean  by  them?" 

My  father  laughed  good-humouredly.  "  Why — of  course  me  and 
your  stepmamma !  "  said  he.  "  Whom  else  could  she  mean  ?  We're 
the  culprits!  Now  what  does  Jackey  say?" 

I  felt  flattered  and  important.  My  oracular  utterance  was: — 
"  It's  all  her  cheek !  All  about  explanations  and  other  people  is  her 
cheek."  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  qualify  her  cheek  as 
"  beastly  " — an  unwarranted  expression !  I  developed  the  subject 
further.  Bert  had  been  in  an  awful  wax  with  Miss  Ev  .  .  . 
stopped  by  the  censorship  .  .  .  and,  if  you  came  to  that,  with 
the  Governor  himself,  because  she  wasn't  a  bridesmaid.  This  pro- 
found view  of  my  sister's  conduct  only  found  a  lukewarm  public. 

I  don't  think  my  father  felt  that  his  son  was  shining  as  an  ex- 
ponent of  contemporary  history.  For  he  seemed  ready  to  suspend 
the  subject,  saying : — "  Well,  well !  We  shall  have  a  happy  couple 
on  our  hands,  that's  all !  Perhaps  they'll  be  wiser  after  their 
honeymoon.  .  .  .  I'm  ready  for  breakfast,  my  dear.  I  don't 
know  what  you  are." 

If  you  know  the  Christian  spirit  of  forgiveness  to  which  sup- 
pressed execration  changes  when  the  guest  appears  who  has  kept 
dinner  waiting,  you  will  be  able  to  acctunt  for  the  leniency  with 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  207 

which  all  of  us  viewed  this  needlessly  irregular  marriage.  The 
fact  was  that  the  nightmare  of  an  unaccountable  disappearance  had 
been  so  oppressive,  that  we  should  have  welcomed  the  truant's  re- 
turn on  any  terms.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  always  felt  that  a 
sudden  vacancy,  unaccounted  for,  in  a  place  some  belonging  of 
mine — not  a  beloved  one  of  necessity — has  vanished  from,  is  harder 
to  bear  than  the  worst  of  mishaps  with  explanations.  Yes — I 
would  sooner  the  missing  unit  should  return  a  leper  than  not  return 
at  all!  Anything  rather  than  an  Old  Oak  Chest!  And  when 
the  calamity  is  recognizably  short  of  leprosy — when  the  only  afflic- 
tion involved  is  a  sudden  unprovoked  son-in-law, — are  we  not 
excusable  if  we  feel  thankful  for  the  outcome  of  our  anxiety;  as 
I  really  believe  my  father  did,  when  he  found  that  his  affectionate 
daughter  had  become  nothing  worse  than  Roberta  Grayper?  For 
I  have  no  doubt  his  imagination  had  run  riot  among  possibilities 
more  formidable  than  anything  mine  could  achieve. 

But  there  were  things  to  be  reckoned  with.  Among  others  the 
police.  A  solemn  mysterious  emissary  called  next  day  from  Scot- 
land Yard  to  inform  my  father  that  on  the  morning  of  my  sister's 
disappearance  a  young  lady  of  her  name  had  been  married  by 
special  license  at  some  church  at  Putney,  or  thereabouts.  Further, 
that  the  couple  so  married  had  been  traced  to  Folkestone,  and  had 
probably  gone  to  Paris.  My  father  had  to  produce  the  letter  he  had 
received  from  the  bride,  feeling  rather  ashamed  all  the  while;  with- 
out, as  he  said,  sufficient  reason;  for  what  was  there  unreasonable 
in  his  action  ?  The  police  officer  seemed  to  take  umbrage  at  his 
lenient  view  of  the  situation,  and  would  naturally  have  preferred 
some  statutable  outcome.  My  father  had  to  affect  a  regret  he  did 
not  feel  that  no  proceedings  could  be  taken  against  some  person 
or  persons.  His  daughter  was  certainly  not  yet  twenty-one,  but  it 
would  be  absurd  to  pretend  that  she  was  still  a  child.  She  was  a 
minor  technically,  no  doubt,  but  ...  a  good  many  buts.  The 
officer  expressed  dissatisfaction  with  the  state  of  the  law.  Girls 
should  not  be  allowed  to  go  away  from  home,  to  visit  at  friend's 
houses,  to  associate  with  the  opposite  sex  or  to  invite  its  admira- 
tion by  figging  themselves  up.  Many  other — in  fact  most  other — 
things  would  not  be  allowed,  if  he  had  his  way.  But  he  could 
be,  and  was,  mollified,  and  induced  to  take  up  the  position  that 
after  all  young  women  would  be  young  women,  say  what  you  might. 
I  don't  think  he  left  the  house  dissatisfied,  but  I  cannot  say  with 
how  much. 

Another  thing  to  be  reckoned  with  was  Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  I  am 
sure  my  father  would  have  compounded  liberally  with  this  good 


208  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

lady  in  exchange  for  silence  about  our  affairs,  leaving  her  quite 
free  to  deal  with  everybody  else's,  or  to  make  a  like  bargain  with 
Society.  But  I  must  say  this  for  Mrs.  Walkinshaw;  I  believe  her 
to  have  been  quite  above  mercenary  consideration.  She  was  an 
example  of  a  drug-habit,  and  a  common  one,  though  I  don't  exactly 
know  the  name  of  the  drug.  But  I  know  its  chief  symptom,  a  keen 
interest  in  what  does  not  concern  the  patient,  and  I  can  distinguish 
further  between  its  acute  and  chronic  forms.  Varnish  indicated 
this  distinction  once  when  she  said'  to  me,  overhearing  Mrs.  Walk- 
inshaw through  a  closed  door: — "I  declare  if  she  ain't  talking 
about  a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  Master  Eustace."  I  said,  "  The 
door's  too  thick  to  tell;"  and  Varnish  saw  what  I  meant,  for  she 
replied,  "  It  don't  want  to  come  through,  for  the  sake  of  the 
meaning.  So  you  go  along,  Squire!  Why — 'ark  at  that!  "  And  I, 
harking  at  it,  could  discern  a  something  halfway  between  roguery 
and  relish — archness  and  carnivorousness — which  my  later  experi- 
ence has  learned  to  associate  with  the  acuter  phases  of  the  dis- 
order. I  diagnosed  the  symptom  unmistakably  when  on  the  second 
day  after  I  became  the  brother  of  a  Mrs.  this  excellent  lady  was 
announced  as  a  visitor  to  my  stepmother.  She  may  be  said  to  have 
appeared  in  war-paint. 

She  loomed  over  us  one  moment — over  all  the  family,  that  is, 
except  my  father,  who  had  not  yet  come  home — before  she  swooped 
to  kiss  the  female  members  of  it,  who  had  to  submit.  But  so  full 
•was  she  of  her  topic,  that  she  interwove  a  large  expansive  interro- 
gation into  the  weft  of  her  salutes.  "And — what — is — this ? 

My  dear  Mrs.  Pascoe,  how  well  you  are  looking !  What — is 

— this — I — hear ?  And  my  Elaine!  My  child,  you  are  abso- 
lutely lovely What — is  this — incredible  news ?  And  dear 

Gracey,  of  course ?  This  incredible  news  about  my  Joan  of 

Arc? "  She  had  reached  her  climax,  and  accepted  a  sofa  to  hear  the 
answer  on. 

I  felt  grateful  internally  that  I  had  a  stepmother  who  always 
proved  a  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  I  saw  how  her  figure  and 
its  dress  helped  her.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,"  said  she.  "  your 
Joan  of  Arc  has  taken  the  bit  in  her  teeth  and  provided  herself  with 
a  husband.  But  don't  ask  me  to  account  for  anything ! ''  She 
threw  up  the  palms  of  her  very  elegant  hands,  to  defend  herself 
against  interrogation. 

"  Then  I  mustn't  ask."  She  submitted  to  circumstance,  but  as 
a  box  shuts,  or  a  door.  A  hasp  of  any  sort  knocks  all  the  heart  out 
of  passivity. 

I  think  Jemima  saw  dangers  ahead,  for  she  surrendered  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  209 

point.  "  Oh — well,  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  say  what  I  do  know. 
Of  course,  dear  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  you  are  such  a  very  old  friend !  " 
Both  went  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  or  rapture,  over  the  antiquity  of 
this  friendship.  Jemima  continued : — "  1  wouldn't  tell  every  one 
this,  but  with  you  it's  so  different!  You  know,  she's  a  character, 
Roberta  is?" 

"  My  dear,  do  I  not  always  call  her  Joan  -of  Arc  ? " 

"  Precisely.  And  she's  very  like  her,  if  you  can  rely  on  her 
statues  ...  I  mean  Joan's.  Well — but  really  I'm  not  sure  how 
much  I  ought  to  say !  " 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  suddenly  begged  that  she  might  be  told 
nothing — nothing  that  was  the  least  a  secret.  She  merely  curled 
up  over  that  word  "  least." 

My  stepmother  let  out  several  reefs  in  a  hurry,  to  catch  the 
wind.  "  It's  not  such  a  secret  as  all  that,"  said  she.  She  looked 
attentively  at  her  visitor  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then — rather 
over  the  heads  of  us  young  people,  as  one  speaks  to  experience 
which  will  understand — added  in  a  quick  abated  voice: — "She 
won't  forgive  me,  you  know!  That  was  what  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it." 

"  /  understand.    My  dear,  you  needn't  tell  me  another  word." 

<:  Yes — that  was  it!     Nothing  else." 

"  So  natural!    The  dear  girl !  " 

"  It's  not  the  least  surprising.  You  know  I  can  quite  under- 
stand her  position,  and  forgive  her  completely." 

"  Why  of  course!    You  have  known  her  from  a  baby." 

"  Almost  a  baby.  And  she  has  always  shown  this  decision  of 
character.  It  is  really  a  beautiful  trait,  however  we  look  at  it." 

"  And  they've  gone  to  Paris,  this  young  couple."  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw spoke  as  if  this  was  an  added  testimony  of  the  decision  of 
character.  Irresolution  would  haVe  wavered  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel,  clearly!  "  But  how  surprised  you  must  have  been  ! '' 

"  Quite  taken  aback.  And  we  had  a  dreadful  fright,  too,  be- 
cause her  letter  was  delayed  till  next  day.  How  were  we  to  know 
she  had  not  come  to  some  harm  ? " 

I  could  not  help  intruding  on  the  conversation,  being  impatient 
of  what  I  thought  humbug  in  it.  "  Bert  didn't  care  twopence," 
said  I;  behind  a  side-wing,  as  it  were. 

"  Oh,  you  boys !  "  said  Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  And  Jemima  laughed 
equably. 

But  the  question  really  before  the  house  was  still  unsettled;  to 
wit.  my  sister's  motives  in  making  a  runaway  match  nemine  con- 
tradicente.  My  stepmother  no  doubt  thought  this  a  good  oppor- 


210  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

tunity  for  an  official  statement,  knowing  that  her  interviewer  might 
be  relied  on  to  tell  every  one  immediately.  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  was 
on  no  account  to  pay  any  attention  to  what  Jackey  said,  nor  to 
any  boy  at  any  time  on  any  subject.  Their  dear  Roberta  had  never 
supposed  her  letter  would  be  delayed  till  next  day.  It  was  the 
Post.  Letters  would  arrive  of  their  own  accord,  if  only  the  Post 
would  not  come  in  the»way — so  Jemima  seemed  to  imply.  She  had 
no  need  to  tell  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  what  it  was  that  had  produced 
such  a  sort  of  ...  resentment — it  was  the  only  word  she  could 
use — in  our  dear  Roberta.  Oh  no — Mrs.  Walkinshaw  knew,  with- 
out being  told,  that  it  was  the  steps  her  dear  husband  had  thought 
prudent  and  advisable  to  take  in  connection  with  their  own  wed- 
ding. She  sometimes  felt  uncertain  whether  in  that  case  the 
wisest  course  had  been  pursued.  But  that  was  neither  here  nor 
there.  My  father's  wish  was  her  law,  and  it  was  no  use  crying 
over  spilled  milk.  Anyhow — there  it  was!  Roberta  had  felt — well! 
— exasperated  at  her  father  not  having  disclosed  his  intentions 
more  plainly,  and  had,  perhaps  absurdly — though  Jemima  was  not 
without  sympathy  for  her — pursued  a  similar  course  in  circum- 
stances absolutely  different,  where  no  reason  could  possibly  be 
assigned  for  it. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  perceived  everything  with  microscopic  in- 
tensity, expressed  by  glaring,  and  squeezing  out  superlatives.  No 
one  who  had  the  least  understanding  of  girls  could  feel  the  slight- 
est wonder  at  the  course  which  so  exceptional,  yet  typical,  an  ex- 
ample had  adopted  in  this  case.  She  herself  approved — nay,  ap- 
plauded— everything  that  every  one  concerned  had  done.  Every- 
thing did  everybody  credit.  But  if  she  had  had  an  inquiring  mind, 
and  had  weakly  given  way  to  its  promptings,  she  might  have  felt 
inclined  to  ask  whether  it  was  possible  that  Roberta  had  shied  off 
being  married  from  her  father's  house,  in  view  of  the'  unpopularity 
of  its  present  mistress.  This  last  is  not  verbally  reported,  but 
abbreviated  down  to  its  bare  meaning.  For  what  with  apologies, 
extenuations,  reservations,  "  prudent  pauses,  sage  provisos,  sub- 
intents  and  saving  clauses,"  the  good  lady  took  some  time  over  ex- 
pressing this  simple  idea.  It  certainly  was  not  an  easy  one  to 
propound,  and  I  remember  feeling  afraid  that  Jemima  would  be 
offended,  although  I  recognized  a  certain  skill  in  the  way  it  had  been 
formulated. 

But  she  only  treated  it  with  derision.  Roberta's  conduct  had 
certainly  been  dictated  by  unforgiveness  towards  herself.  It  was, 
however,  an  assertion  of  independence,  a  censure  of  her  father's 
concealment  of  his  intended  marriage  and  an  affirmation  of  her 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  2H 

right  to  play  the  same  part  herself.  The  sentiment  of  it  was  that 
two  could  play  at  that  game.  "  I  don't  believe,"  said  Jemima, 
"  that  she  would  have  looked  upon  it  as  being  married  from  my 
house  in  the  least.  I  doubt  if  the  dear  girl  considers  me  the  mis- 
tress of  it  at  all." 

I  muttered,  for  Ellen  to  hear : — l<  No — she  says  you're  Miss 
Evans."  And  Ellen  checked  me  in  a  horrified  way  with : — "  Oh, 
Jackey,  don't!"  Whereupon  our  visitor  asked  gushily  what  the 
dear  boy  was  saying,  and  Ellen  said  I  had  said  nothing.  I  did  not 
repeat  my  remark,  for  a  reason  for  which  I  afterwards  found  ex- 
pression when  I  reported  the  interview  to  Varnish,  in  the  words: — 
"  I  didn't  want  to  be  slobbered  over  by  her"  I  believe  Jemima  heard, 
for  she  did  not  press  for  a  repetition,  and  presently  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw  took  her  departure,  overflowing  with  benedictions. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

How  can  recollections  of  over  fifty  years  since  be  written,  so  that 
they  shall  not  seem  bald,  disjointed,  unconnected?  Ask  rather — 
how  can  they  be  written  at  all!  Think  what  he  who  looks  back 
over  half  a  century  has  to  see  beyond,  and  wonder  that  that  early 
world  should  be  distinguishable  from  the  crowd  of  incidents  that 
succeed  it! 

And  yet,  they  are  distinct  enough  when  Memory  gets  a  clue 
to  hold  by.  Things  forgotten  come  back  at  the  bidding  of  a  chance 
image.  For  instance,  that  ride  with  my  father  to  St.  John's  Wood 
in  the  hansom,  all  the  events  of  which  were  hidden  in  Oblivion 
until  a  match  was  struck  to  illumine  them.  What  was  it  now,  that 
summoned  that  vanished  journey  from  the  past?  Something  as 
forgotten  as  itself,  but  a  moment  since!  Was  it  the  head  of  that 
hare  my  father  carved  at  dinner?  Very  likely — since  I  fancy  it  so. 
But  why?  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  If  I  were  to  trace  every 
such  clue  that  crosses  my  mind,  and  write  all  that  each  suggests, 
there  would  never — as  my  sister  Ellen  used  to  say — be  the  end  of 
it.  To  avoid  mere  Chaos,  I  have  to  catch  at  landmarks,  let  what 
will  revive  in  my  mind,  and  leave  cohesion  to  take  its  chance. 

One  such  landmark  is  an  event  which  placed,  for  a  time,  a  meta- 
phorical gulf  between  me  and  my  beloved  friend  Cooky.  He  who 
had  been  a  schoolboy  like  myself — however  much  he  stood  above 
me  in  his  classes — became  a  college  man,  and  adopted  the  style 
and  title  of  "  Mr.  Moss."  I  regret  to  say  that  he  adopted  a 
chimney-pot  hat  with  it,  thereby  becoming  for  ever  the  slave  of  con- 
vention. It  did  not  suit  him.  Sane  banality  sat  ill  upon  the 
reputed  semblance  of  Nebuchadnezzar— my  father's  name  for  him. 
When  he  appeared,  not  without  pride,  in  his  cylindrical  headgear 
at  The  Retreat,  he  was  treated  with  derision;  indeed  Gracey  went 
so  far  as  to  call  him  an  old  clothesman.  So,  as  I  recollect,  he 
thereafter  kept  it  in  the  background  as  much  as  possible. 

If  I  had  not  been  within  a  twelvemonth  of  passing  the  barrier 
that  separates  the  School  from  the  College,  this  promotion  might 
have  fixed  a  great  gulf  between  us.  But  I  was  so  soon  to  know 
knowledge  more  grown-uply — nobody  will  ever  read  this  word,  so 

212 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  213 

why  not  use  it  ? — than  was  possible  to  a  schoolboy,  with  a  cap,  that 
our  separation  did  not  arrive — that,  I  see  in  newspapers,  is  a  good 
expression  to  use  nowadays — and  might  have  been  fairly  described 
as  a  Platonic  detachment.  I  was  already  looking  forward  to  having 
my  knowledge-box  repacked  secundum  artem,  and  indeed  I  felt 
a  foretaste  of  omniscience  in  my  limited  communications  with 
my  friend,  which  were  otherwise  a  little  like  calling  across  the  Styx 
to  a  departed  ghost. 

Another  landmark,  which  had  painful  consequences  for  me  in 
after  life,  was  my  discovery  that  I  had  a  genius  for  the  Fine  Arts. 
This  pernicious  idea  would  never  have  crossed  my  mind,  if  a 
schoolfellow  of  mine  named  Jacox  had  not  had  another  idea,  nearly 
equally  pernicious,  that  he  had  a  genius  for  Satire.  These  two 
ideas  fructified  in  Room  K.  which  I  fancy  I  have  already  referred 
to.  under  circumstances  as  follows : 

In  Room  K.,  on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons,  a  delusion 
was  indulged  in  by  boys  willing  to  sacrifice  two  half -holidays  in  the 
week  to  self-deception,  to  the  effect  that  they  were  being  taught 
how  to  draw.  A  correlated  delusion  obsessed  at  the  same  time 
certain  instructors,  who  were  not  Early  Masters — at  least  on  the 
morning  of  this  occurrence.  For  they  came  late — late  enough  to 
allow  of  my  making  a  crude  sketch  of  the  Farnese  Hercules,  with 
Jacox  looking  over  my  shoulder,  before  their  authority  ejected  us 
from  the  premises,  where  neither  had  any  business.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  that  they  had  been  earlier.  Then  Jacox  might  never  have 
said: — "  You  know  how  to  draw  and  no  mistake,  Pascoe! "  I  per- 
ceive, now  that  it  is  too  late — near  sixty  years  too  late! — that  he 
was,  according  to  his  lights,  satirical.  He  had  justification,  how- 
ever, in  the  widely  spread  belief  that  an  exaggerated  overstatement 
of  the  contrary  is  an  effective  form  of  ridicule.  What  he  wished 
to  convey  was  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  draw,  and  probably 
never  should.  I  doubt  if  I  was  able  at  that  time  to  conceive  myself 
incapable  of  anything,  and  I  accepted  his  encomium  seriously. 

It  was  very  natural.  Tell  any  over-confident  boy  of  fifteen  that 
he  has  a  strong  bent  for  anything,  and  egotism  will  do  the  rest. 
Of  course  if  the  bias  of  his  supposed  genius  is  towards  a  subject 
which  calls  for  a  slight  effort  to  acquire  a  rudiment  of  skill  in  its 
earliest  manifestation,  he  has  a  better  chance  of  escaping  a  mis- 
conception of  his  own  latent  abilities.  He  has  to  learn  to  play 
scales  on  the  piano,  at  least,  before  it  will  occur  to  the  most  of- 
ficious family  friend  to  assure  his  parents  that  they  have  added 
to  the  world's  musical  wealth  the  germ  of  a  Paderewski.  He  must 
learn  musical  notation  to  convince  the  most  sanguine  critic  that 


214  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

he  is  a  Beethoven  in  embryo.  No  one  will  believe  he  is  a  mute  in- 
glorious Soyer  until  he  can  cook  a  potato,  that  he  is  Kobin  Hood 
or  William  Tell  until  he  hits  something;  or  Tom  Cribb  or  Nat 
Langham  until  he  knocks  some  one  down,  or  out.  All  these  accom- 
plishments— taken  at  random — call  for  an  admission  ticket  to  their 
outer  court,  for  which  the  aspirant  has,  as  it  were,  to  pay  cash. 
Even  Poetry  and  the  Drama  demand  spelling,  and  even  grammar, 
though  I  confess  I  write  this  with  diffidence. 

It  is  otherwise  when  we  have  to  deal  with  the  Fine  Arts.  A  piece 
of  drawing-paper  and  a  pencil  are  all  that  is  necessary  to  show 
genius,  and  the  less  visible  it  is  to  a  normal  vision  the  greater  the 
credit  to  his  insight  who  detects  it.  And  herein  lies  the  difference 
between  the  painter's  art  and  that  of  the  musician,  cook,  marks- 
man, or  prize-fighter.  No  preliminary  knowledge  is  necessary,  and 
no  authority  can  convict  him  of  incompetence.  If  incompetency 
always  broke  its  pencil-point,  or  sucked  the  vermilion,  as  some  of  us 
have  done  in  early  youth,  authority  would  have  something  to  lay 
hold  of  and  could  point  out  those  disqualifications  for  the  career 
of  a  Reynolds,  a  Michelangelo,  or  a  Turner.  But  any  moderately 
clever  boy  can  get  over  these  difficulties  in  a  few  hours,  and  is 
thereafter  entrenched  behind  his  genius  as  in  a  fortress  where 
none  can  touch  him.  It  is  no  use  to  tell  him  he  has  drawn  a  leg 
a  mile  long.  It  is  the  foreshortening  that  makes  it  look  so,  or  the 
perspective,  or  it  is  your  narrow-minded  academical  accuracy  that 
prevents  you  entering  into  the  ideal  character  of  the  work. 
Measurement,  he  will  explain  to  you,  is  useless  as  a  criterion  of 
proportion,  except  on  the  picture  itself,  which  is  wet,  and  you  must 
on  no  account  touch  it.  Anyhow,  he's  right.  Few  of  us  have  the 
hardihood  to  express  opinions  about  colour  to  real  artists,  but 
now  and  then  a  meek  voice  rises  in  protest  against  emerald  green 
eyes,  and  blackberry-juice  lips,  and  is  told  that  its  owner  is  colour- 
blind. How  can  he  know  that  he  isn't?  And  when  he  points  out 
that  another  real  artist  has  painted  the  same  original  with  emerald 
green  lips  and  blackberry- juice  eyes,  he  does  not  score  a  single  run. 
Because  that  is  interpretation.  It  is  always  a  case  of  heads,  In- 
spiration wins;  tails,  you  lose.  Respectful  silence  is  always  open 
to  bystanders,  whose  consolation  it  must  be  to  reflect  that  the  most 
original  and  powerful  neosophies  may  pass  and  be  forgotten,  unless 
they  get  vaguely  mixed  up  with  Belial,  who  never  loses  a  chance  of 
self-assertion. 

However,  the  Mystery  of  Colour,  with  all  its  splendid  openings 
for  Popes  in  want  of  a  job,  had  not  offered  itself  as  a  resource  for 
my  infallibility  when  I  first  discerned  in  myself,  at  the  suggestion 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  215 

of  friends,  the  materials  of  an  Artist.  That  was  a  sad  day  for 
me  when  Jacox  told  me  that  I  could  draw  and  no  mistake.  If  he 
had  only  put  his  tongue  ever  so  tenderly  in  his  cheek!  .  .  . 
But  it  is  no  use  talking  about  it.  I  did  not  detect  his  ironical 
method,  and  I  did  buy  cartridge  paper  and  a  three-penny  BB 
pencil,  and  a  piece  of  India-rubber  of  the  period,  as  I  walked  back 
from  school,  that  very  afternoon  in  the  autumn  of  fifty-five.  I 
promptly  put  the  rubber  to  thaw  in  my  breeches-pocket,  and  the 
moment  I  got  home  unrolled  my  sheet  of  cartridge  paper,  with  a 
misgiving  that  it  would  not  flatten  out.  It  did  not,  but  I  drew 
Prometheus,  in  spite  of  the  way  the  paper  cockled  with  the  vulture 
just  beginning  to  think  of  where  he  would  turn  to  in  earnest,  and 
his  wings  reaching  all  across  the  picture.  I  was  dissatisfied  with 
Prometheus,  and  tore  him  up. 

Then  I  made  acquaintance  with  a  phenomenon  which  was  to  em- 
barrass me  greatly  later  in  life.  Every  artist  knows  that  the  frag- 
ment of  a  destroyed  picture  speaks  to  the  regretful  spectator  of  a 
miracle  of  composition,  vigorous  draughtsmanship,  delicate  play 
of  light  and  shade,  solidity,  tenderness,  fancy — all  the  things ! — 
lost  for  ever  through  the  ruthless  Vandalism  of  its  destroyer.  Any 
one  can  test  this  who  possesses  a  work  of  Art  that  he  has  loathed 
from  infancy — has  placed  in  a  lumber-room  with  its  face  to  the 
wall  because  who  can  say  but  that  some  one,  some  day  might  like 
it,  to  have?  Any  portion  of  such  a  picture,  produced  in  a  society  of 
real  connoisseurs,  will  procure  for  him  who  has  detached  it  ex- 
ecrations and  contumely.  And  what  is  worse,  he  will  himself  be 
overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  perception  of  the  Qualities  of  the  miser- 
able residuum,  and  will  thereafter  writhe  with  penitential  anguish 
at  the  thought  of  the  careful  modelling  of  the  torso  and  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  middle  distance — lost,  lost  for  ever!  And  all 'be- 
cause he  gave  way  to  rashness,  when  he  might  at  least  have  shown 
the  Art  Treasure  to  any  really  good  Judge,  who  would  have  saved 
it  for  posterity. 

My  first  experience  of  this  phenomenon  came  to  me  when  I  tore 
Prometheus  up ;  and  did  not,  when  I  threw  the  pieces  away,  make  a 
clean  sweep  of  the  whole  lot.  One  remained,  with  the  vulture's 
claw  upon  it.  Varnish  found  it,  and  recognized  it  as  the  work 
of  an  Artist,  whatever  it  represented.  She  exclaimed  against  my 
act  of  wanton  destruction,  but  not  so  much  on  the  score  of  its 
vandalism  as  because  of  the  cost  of  the  materials.  Think  of  all 
that  money  gone,  and  nothing  to  show  for  it !  Wherever  I  got 
the  example  from  it  went  beyond  her  powers  to  imagine.  Only  one 
thing  she  was  sure — it  wasn't  Master  Moss !  This,  please  note,  was 


216  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

not  an  expression  of  popular  opinion  about  Judaism,  which  ascribes 
to  it  an  exaggerated  economy;  but  of  faith  in  Cooky  as  an  adviser. 
Nor  yet  it  wasn't  Miss  Gracey,  because  she  knew  better.  It  was 
the  corruption  of  man's  heart.  She  referred  the  matter  to  Gracey, 
who  was  forthwith  deceived  by  the  surviving  fragment  into  the 
recollection  of  conspicuous  promise  in  the  original  which  presently 
became  masterly  performance.  "  How  ever  could  you  be  so  silly, 
Jackey  ?  "  said  Gracey,  "  as  to  spoil. all  that  beautiful  drawing?  And 
all  out  of  your  own  head,  too !  "  Thereupon  she  and  Varnish  laid 
their  wits  together,  and  traced  the  bulk  of  Prometheus  to  a  house- 
maid's box,  where  it  was  waiting  to  light  her  next  fire,  and  the 
Titan's  head  to  The  Dust;  and  that  filthy,  one  wondered  Miss 
Gracey  could  touch  it;  the  one  being  Varnish. 

The  flavour  of  Carbolic  Acid  that  pervades  this  Infirmary — and 
every  other,  no  doubt — dies  in  my  nostrils  at  the  bidding  of 
Memory,  to  make  way  for  a  phantom  of  that  whiff  that  came  from 
The  Dust  as  my  intrepid  little  sister  plunged  into  its  penetralia 
with  a  candle,  and  identified  the  missing  fragment  among  potato- 
peelings  and  some  broken  crockery  which  speculation  may  remain 
dumb  about.  That  whiff  makes  me  shudder  still,  near  upon  sixty 
years  later.  And  when  I  see  Gracey's  bright  triumphant  face,  and 
hear  her  voice  exclaim  that  she  has  got  it!  And  then  her  resurrec- 
tion and  surrender  of  the  candlestick,  and  a  search  for  foul 
floating  cobwebs  that  had  caught  and  clung  to  her  hair,  and 
tickled.  But  she  had  been  touched  by  nothing  else,  having  rescued 
the  salvage  with  a  cautious  finger  and  thumb,  and  brought  it  out 
proudly  to  the  light  of  Heaven,  where  it  could  be  blown  and  shaken. 

I  ask  my  Self  now,  as  I  look  back  to  that  hour,  was  it  really  he, 
that  spoiled  young  cub,  who  could  even  utter  derision  of  that 
darling  girl  for  going  into  that  beastly  dust-hole  to  resuscitate 
his  rubbish  ?  For  he  did,  and  all  the  while  I  was  flattering  him  that 
the  incident  could  be  made  capital  of  for  our  common  glory. 
What  could  be  more  splendid  than  to  despise  and  fling  aside  so 
powerful  a  manifestation  of  genius?  What  nobler  than  to  under- 
value it  as  a  mere  symptom  of  the  great  achievements  that  were 
to  follow? 

At  the  same  time,  I  was  still  such  a  mere  baby,  so  crude  a 
product  of  a  nursery  and  a  school,  that  I,  looking  back,  am  fain  to 
tolerate  my  Self — the  Self  of  those  days — even  as  my  circle  toler- 
ated and  encouraged  its  self-conceit  and  crudity. 

But  their  forbearance  and  patience  were  my  ruin.  A  little  disci- 
pline might  have  saved  me,  and  none  was  forthcoming.  It  hap- 
pened unfortunately  that  my  bent,  to  the  top  of  which  they  fooled 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  217 

me,  was  one  in  which  the  only  sane  and  responsible  guardian  I  had 
— my  father  to  wit — was  completely  at  sea.  His  easy-going  mod- 
esty could  form  no  judgment  as  to  whether  I  had,  or  had  not  in 
me  the  stuff  from  which  an  artist  can  be  made.  When  I  followed 
up  Prometheus  with  a  heterogeneous  muddle  of  unfinished  designs, 
all  of  the  most  ambitious  sort,  none  a  scrap  better  than  what  any 
fairly  clever  self-confident  boy  could  reel  off  by  the  score,  he  either 
mistrusted  his  own  critical  powers,  or  kept  silence,  borne  down  by 
the  applause  of  well-meaning  friends;  who,  when  called  upon  to 
admire  my  latest  marvellous  productions,  thought  they  were  com- 
plying with  his  wish  in  perceiving  in  me  the  nascent  germ  of  any 
and  every  great  artist  whose  name  they  happened  to  remember. 
They  went  away  and  laughed  at  the  ridiculous  boy;  that  I  do 
not  doubt  for  a  moment.  But  how  was  my  dear  father  to  know 
that  I  was  not  a  Raphael  in  embryo,  when  every  approach  he  made 
towards  discussing  my  abilities  as  mortal,  was  quashed  with  assur- 
ances that  the  Fine  Arts  were  not  subject  to  any  ascertainable 
laws — not  to  be  discussed  by  the  vulgar  outsider  on  any  intelligible 
lines,  such  as  would  be  followed  in  the  case  of  any  other  subject. 

This,  however,  is  outrunning  my  story.  Let  me  get  back  to  that 
filthy  dust-bin,  and  Gracey,  limping  triumphantly  up  the  kitchen 
stairs  with  the  rescued  Titan's  head. 

I  am  reminded  that,  on  the  way.  our  Cook  was  instructed  to  make 
paste  of  an  exceptional  tenacity,  nothing  that  human  power  could 
detach  from  anywhere  being  held  applicable  to  the  purpose  in 
hand.  She  made,  I  think,  a  quart.  I  condescended  so  far  as  to  go 
out  to  a  neighbouring  oilman's  and  buy  a  pastebrush  for  two- 
pence, which  moulted  disgracefully,  very  soon  reducing  the  quart 
of  paste  to  a  matrix  full  of  hog's  bristles.  Enough  remained, 
however,  to  reinstate  the  drawing  on  a  cardboard  backing,  with 
only  one  or  two  holes  in  the  sky,  which  did  beautifully  for  clouds. 
As  I  write  all  I  recollect,  I  must  record  that  the  paste  was  care- 
fully covered  over  and  consigned  to  a  shelf,  where  it  proceeded  to 
become  green  mould.  It  was  known  thereafter  as  "  the  paste ''  and 
allowed  to  get  worse  for  a  long  time  on  the  plea  that  it  might,  after 
all,  be  wanted  for  something.  It  never  was,  and  would  have  been 
found  ineffectual  and  sickly,  under  its  green  mould,  if  it  had  been. 

That  evening  when  my  father,  having  finished  his  pipe  in  his 
own  room,  joined  the  remainder  of  the  family  in  the  drawing-room, 
the  first  words  he  said  were: — "Now  let's  see  the  great  work  of 
Art." 

"  There  now !  "  said  Gracey.  "  Jackey  must  have  told.  What  a 
shame !  "  The  explanation  of  which  is,  that  during  dinner,  and 


218  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

previously,  hopes  had  been  held  out  to  my  father  of  a  privileged 
inspection  of  a  rare  production  undescribed,  the  work  of  a 
near  connection  of  the  family,  not  specified.  He  had  under- 
taken to  possess  his  soul  in  peace  until  after  pipe-time,  but  had 
broken  his  promise,  inquiring  of  me  in  the  library,  where  I  was 
detecting  the  meaning  of  an  obscure  passage  in  Juvenal,  what 
the  fun  was.  I  affected  ignorance,  and  he  explained,  referring 
to  expressions  used  at  dinner.  ,1  said,  as  one  who  recalls  what 
has  merited  oblivion: — "  Oh — thai!  That  was  nothing.  Only  a 
rotten  drawing  I  made  of  Prometheus." 

"  Well ! "  said  my  father,  placidly  smoking.  "  We'll  see  the 
rotten  drawing,  at  any  rate.  Fine  Arts ! — that's  our  game,  is  it  ?  " 
So,  when  we  joined  the  ladies,  we  saw  the  rotten  drawing,  and 
its  author  felt  that  his  position  was  the  stronger  since  its  disin- 
tegration and  restoration.  Could  I  have  anticipated  some  later 
experiences,  I  should  have  discerned  the  cause  of  this,  and  given 
it  a  name.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it — it  was  the  Quality  it 
had  acquired.  In  my  innocence  I  then  imagined  that  my  posi- 
tion had  been  improved  by  false  concepts  in  the  Spectators'  minds 
of  what  the  splendour  of  the  drawing  was  before  I  tore  it  up. 
But  this  was  delusion.  Quality  was  the  responsible  agent. 

"Which  did  which?"  said  my  father,  under  misapprehension 
as  to  the  authorship.  "  Gracey  the  bird,  and  Jackey  the  statue? 
Or  Jackey  the  bird,  and  Gracey  the  statue?" 

"  You  dear,  old,  silly  papa,"  said  Gracey.  "  It's  not  a  statue. 
It's  Prometheus.  And  the  Vulture  gnawing  at  his  liver,  like  in 
Shelley.  And  I  didn't  do  any  of  it;  Jackey  did  it  all — all  by  him- 
self, out  of  his  own  head,  and  nobody  to  help  him!  He  did, 
indeed!" 

My  father  glanced  at  his  wife  opposite,  for  confirmation.  "  I 
believe  that  is  the  case,"  said  she.  And  her  manner  did  not  deny, 
at  least,  that  "  the  case "  was  a  remarkable  one. 

His  response  was: — "H'm!"  And  I  discerned  in  the  tone  of 
each  a  sufficient  confirmation  of  the  wisdom  of  Jacox.  My 
father  then  proceeded  to  examine  details.  "  The  vulture  isn't 
gnawing  his  liver,"  said  he.  "  His  liver's  on  the  other  side." 

"Would  a  vulture  know?"  said  Gracey,  thoughtfully,  anxious 
about  my  fame  for  accuracy.  "  But,  of  course,  they  would  have 
told  him  i  "  She  seemed  quite  disconcerted  on  my  behalf ! 

"  It  doesn't  at  all  follow,"  said  my  father.  "  Anyhow,  he  would 
make  preliminary  prods.  But  why  hasn't  Prometheus  got  eyes? 
I  should  have  preferred  to  see  the  Vulture,  myself." 

"  Oh,   papa  dear,   how   can  you  ?     He   has   got   eyes.     Hasn't 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  219 

he  got  eyes,  Jackey?  You  did  give  him  eyes,  dear,  didn't 
you?" 

I  was  skulking  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — a  misinterpreta- 
tion of  a  modest  demeanour.  "  He's  got  Greek  eyes,"  said  I. 

"  Perfectly  correct,"  said  my  father,  with  gravity.  "  And  Greek 
hair,  I  suppose.  In  those  days  they  had  some  consideration  for 
the  sculptors.  And  what's  that  going  on  in  the  sky?  Greek 
fire?" 

I  took  this  quite  seriously.  "  That's  the  sunset,"  I  said.  Those 
are  only  holes.  We've  lost  the  pieces." 

"  Oh — they  are  holes.  Very  good.  But  what  I  want  to  know, 
young  man,  is — why  did  you  tear  it  all  up?" 

"  Because  I  thought  it  so  beastly  bad  when  it  was  done.  I 
didn't  want  it  stuck  together  again.  It  was  Gracey's  idea."  I 
am  conscious  now  of  what  an  ungracious  young  cub  I  must  have 
been,  or  seemed.  I  feel  horribly  ashamed  as  my  young  sister's 
animated  face  comes  back  to  me,  looking  over  my  father's  shoul- 
der at  the  puerile  drawing,  courting  the  caressing  hand  that  toys 
with  her  sunny  curls,  and  lingers  on  her  downy  cheek,  appre- 
ciatively. I  say  to  myself  in  vain  that  it  does  not  matter  now, 
and  I  try  to  shield  my  heart  against  its  penitence,  behind  the 
long  decades  that  have  come  between,  in  vain. 

But  Gracey  had  no  thought  of  blame  for  her  cub-brother.  Of 
that  I  am  convinced.  She  was  only  thinking  what  a  dear,  clever 
boy  he  was,  and  rejoicing  that  she  had  rescued  his  precious  work 
from  that  filthy  dust-bin  down  below.  "  Now  do  say  it's  a  lovely 
drawing,  papa  dearest!"  said  she.  "Just  think  of  Jackey  doing 
it  all  himself,  and  in  such  a  little  time,  too!  And  he's  never 
done  a  drawing  before!  Do  say  so,  and  I'll  give  you  such  a  nice 
kiss,  exactly  in  the  right  place." 

My  father  accepted  a  prepayment  of  the  bribe,  but  I  don't 
think  he  fulfilled  the  contract,  though  he  appeared  to  assent  to 
it.  "  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  think,  chick,"  said  he.  "  Only  it's 
not  good  for  much  when  it's  done — because  it's  not  my  line.  I 
think  that,  considering  that  it  is  the  work  of  a  young  gentleman 
who  never  did  a  drawing  before,  and  that  he  took  such  a  little 
time  over  it.  and  further,  that  it  is  done  under  some  embarrassing 
Greek  conditions  which  I  can't  profess  to  understand." 

"  Yes.  Considering  all  that,  you  think  it's  lovely.  Now,  don't 
you?" 

"  Well — considering  all  that,  I  think  the  drawing  might  have 
been  worse."  With  which  very  modest  concession  to  his  son's 
greatness,  my  father  escaped,  that  time. 


220  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  have  sometimes  thought  very  leniently  of  my  stepmother  for 
her  share  in  hurrying  me  on  to  destruction.  Because,  although 
she  conceded  to  me  abstract  ability  of  a  high  order — and  we  must 
remember  that  it  is  as  much  as  one's  life  is  worth  to  attempt  to 
stem  High  Art — so  long  as  no  question  was  raised  of  its  adoption 
as  a  profession,  yet  as  soon  as  a  murmur  of  Destiny  was  reported 
to  the  effect  that  I  was  "  going  to  be  "  an  Artist,  she  took  up  her 
parable  on  the  score  of  Caste,  and  denounced  Art  the  profession, 
however  High  on  the  slopes  of  Parnassus,  as  socially  low,  and  alto- 
gether unsuited  for  the  son  of  a  Gentleman.  For,  strange  as  it 
seems  now  to  tell  it,  there  were  still,  in  the  fifties,  persons  in 
Society  who  grudged  admission  to  its  sacred  precinct  to  every 
Art  but  Literature.  The  Elite — so  said  a  Gospel  that  had  sur- 
vived from  the  last  age  but  one — might  be  amateurs,  like  Count 
d'Orsay,  but  not  professionals.  And  this  Gospel  was  preached 
with  the  greatest  vigour  by  persons  on  Society's  outskirts,  who,  in- 
deed, are  apt  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  defence  of  its  citadel  even 
while  the  garrison  is  contemplating  all  sorts  of  mean  concessions 
to  the  enemy. 

Xo  prophet  was  at  hand  to  tell  my  stepmother  that  in  twenty 
years'  time  the  Upper  Circles  would  make  a  general  stampede  into 
the  Lower  ones — that  the  parts  of  tinkers,  tailors,  ploughboys, 
and  apothecaries  would  be  played  by  Gentlemen,  who  had  never 
before  stooped  lower  than  soldiers,  sailors,  and  thieves.  And 
Jemima  was  all  the  more  in  need  of  a  Daniel  to  read  this  writ- 
ing on  the  wall — and  plenty  more  for  that  matter — insomuch  as 
that  her  position  before  marriage  had  been  quite  low  and  vulgar. 
Solicitude  that  her  stepson  should  not  imperil  the  Gentility — 
whatever  it  might  amount  to — that  he  had  inherited  from  an 
attenuated  ancestry,  was  graceful  in  an  ex-governess,  on  her  pro- 
motion. Not  that  she  could  not  claim  kinship  of  Aberllynponty- 
stradrindod,  or  somewhere  thereabouts,  only  she  thought  all  this 
Ancestry  was  such  nonsense.  But  a  line  had  to  be  drawn,  and 
persons  who  belonged  to  a  class  which  offered  peculiar  difficulties 
to  exact  nomenclature  in  plain  language,  but  which,  neverthe- 
less, was  instantly  recognizable  on  its  merits,  had  decided  to  draw 
that  line  at  Art.  No  Gentleman's  son — she  would  have  to  use 
the  word  in  the  end,  one  always  had — could  become  a  Working 
Artist  without  loss  of  Caste. 

I  overheard  a  conversation  to  this  effect,  and  became  a  little 
confused  about  the  Farnese  Hercules,  from  whose  cast  I  luul 
drawn  the  sketch  that  had  led  to  it.  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  under- 
stood, however,  and  appiauded  Jemima's  social  views  to  the  echo. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  221 

Somebody  must  have  told  me  that  this  good  lady,  then  or  there- 
abouts, expressed  the  opinion  that  dear  Mrs.  Pascoe  had  all  along 
seemed — well,  she  knew  no  other  expression! — as  if  she  belonged 
to,  she  supposed  she  must  not  say  the  better  class,  because  that 
was  odious,  but  to  some  section  of  the  population  which  made 
the  speaker  concentrate  her  discriminative  powers  forcibly  with- 
out result,  and  left  her  hearer,  whoever  she  was,  nevertheless 
fully  informed  about  her  meaning,  and  intensely  perceptive  of 
dear  Mrs.  Pascoe's  qualifications  which  it  indicated.  I  say  some 
one  must  have  told  me  this,  or  I  should  not  have  known  it. 

This  protest  against  serious  acceptance  of  Art  as  my  destiny, 
which  makes  me  slow  to  condemn  Jemima  as  a  principal  among 
those  whose  good  intentions  decided  my  adoption  of  it  as  a  pro- 
fession, must  have  come  about  long  after  the  incident  of  Prome- 
theus, as  I  had  added  to  it  a  long  series  of  other  evidences  of 
my  genius — one  worse  than  the  other,  I  should  say — before  my 
father  allowed  himself-  to  travel  with  the  stream  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  quagmire  of  Modern  Art  in  which  it  and  I  were  to 
stagnate  The  discussion  of  whether  I  should  or  should  not  ube 
an  Artist "  was  prolonged  through  my  last  year  of  school  life,  and 
a  short  two  years  of  attendance  at  College,  before  a  final  deci- 
sion became  necessary. 

I  told  my  Self,  when  I  took  up  the  writing  of  these  memories 
that  many  of  them  would  be  painful.  But  I  did  not  anticipate 
that  the  record  of  my  adventures  and  misadventures  in  my  pro- 
fession would  prove  so.  I  thought  of  them  as  a  farce,  the  recall- 
ing of  which  might  amuse  its  writer,  but  could  never  sting  him 
so  many  years  after  the  curtain  fell  on  its  last  scene.  I  find 
now  that  the  farce  was  a  tragedy.  If  I  could  think,  as  others 
do,  of  human  life  as  the  work  of  a  well-intentioned  Creator,  I  should 
have  to  concoct  an  excuse  for  his  mismanagement  of  my  career 
by  supposing  that  he  wanted  to  make  an  example  of  the  conse- 
quences of  presumptuous  vanity  and  shallow  lack  of  purpose,  and 
considered  me  a  worthless  young  jackanapes  suitable  for  the 
object  he  had  in  view.  I  have  so  long  ceased  to  perplex  my  soul 
with  thoughts  beyond  its  reach — to  my  gain,  for  I  no  longer 
"  quake  in  my  disposition '' — that  I  conceive  it  more  reason- 
able to  divide  the  blame  among  those  who  visibly  deserve  it,  my 
Self  in  chief.  What  was  he  about,  not  to  turn  upon  me  with 
reproaches — not  to  warn  me  that  I  could  not  trust  his  prepos- 
terous confidence  in  my  own  fatuous  performances?  I  am  glad 
that  as  I  write  this  I  am  alone — that  none  can  read  it  and  make 
it  the  text  of  a  sermon  on  Free  Will  and  Necessity.  I  could 


222  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

not  stop  it  by  telling  him  the  Will  is  to  me  free  of  hypothesis, 
since  Freedom  is  not  known  to  me  except  as  a  quality  of  the 
Will.  He  would  not  understand  me  in  that,  nor  probably  in 
anything  else. 

And  whom  can  I  blame  now,  except  my  Self?  Not  Gracey, 
when  the  dear  girl's  only  motive  was  her  love  and  admiration 
for,  and  her  confidence  in,  her  younger  brother.  Not  my  father, 
whose  only  fault  was  that  he  mistrusted  his  own  judgment  in  a 
subject  that  was  to  him  a  terra  incognita,  a  land  without  a  sign- 
post. Not  Varnish,  who  to  the  best  of  my  belief  regarded  Art 
and  Science  as  forms  of  Nonsense,  which  well-informed  people 
had  every  right  to  indulge  in ;  only  they  could  hardly  expect  sensi- 
ble, uneducated  persons  to  countenance  them.  Not  my  stepmother, 
as  she  scarcely  came  into  Court  as  an  Art-Critic,  and  certainly 
discouraged  my  adventure  on  social  grounds,  which  I  despised,  but 
which  I  recognize  now  as  ill-handled  lifeboats.  Not  my  sister 
Ellen,  who  was  negative  on  all  opinions,  but  shrank  from  unwel- 
come perplexities  of  every  sort,  saying: — u  Oh  dear!  If  only 
they  would  settle  it  one  way  or  the  other,  and  then  perhaps  we 
should  get  a  little  peace!"  Not,  therefore,  any  of  my  family.  .  .  . 
Stop,  though!  I  have  not  mentioned  Roberta.  She  did  not  en- 
courage me,  I  know.  But  what  can  I  recollect  ?  Almost  nothing. 

Of  course,  plenty  were  to  blame,  outside  my  family  circle.  I 
could  reproach — nay,  murder — Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  for  her  share 
in  the  arrangement  of  my  destiny.  At  the  time,  I  felt  a  spirit 
of  Christian  forgiveness  stirring  in  my  heart — forgiveness  for 
gushes  untold,  untellable — when  I  found  that  the  excellent  lady's 
wild  cries  of  approbation,  overheard  by  me  afar,  had  been  provoked 
by  the  presentation  for  her  inspection  of  a  drawing  of  Milton's 
Allegro,  unfinished,  a  recent  production  of  the  master.  She  had 
greeted  it  with  a  yell,  to  the  effect  that  this  was  Correggio — so 
Gracey  told  me  after.  When  I  entered  the  drawing-room,  she 
greeted  me  as  Correggio  Himself.  I  felt  ready  to  condone  many 
previous  raptures,  in  view  of  this  new  discovery.  If  I  could  sum- 
mon her  from  the  grave  now — she  would  only  be  a  hundred  and 
fifteen,  about — I  could  murder  her  and  pack  her  off  to  her  coffin 
again,  without  remorse,  so  keenly  have  I  since  resented  the  mis- 
chief she  did  me  by  her  gross  flattery.  But  I  doubt  if  my  father 
paid  much  attention  to  Mrs.  Walkinshaw. 

I  had  one  adviser  outside  my  family  to  whom  he  might,  with 
advantage  to  my  welfare,  have  paid  more — namely,  my  old  school 
friend.  But  I  must  in  justice  say  that  I  doubt  if  Cooky  spoke 
freely  to  him.  I  fancy  I  remember  referring  to  the  extraor- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  223 

dinary  ascendency  which  Gracey  exercised  over  Cooky.  I  was 
fully  aware  at  the  time  of  that  young  college  man's  doubts — 
however  temperately  he  expressed  them — of  the  reality  of  what 
every  one  else  was  a-hailing  as  an  extraordinary  development  of 
youthful  genius.  But  I  had  no  means  of  knowing  what  I  after- 
wards suspected,  and  indeed  ultimately  knew,  that  Gracey  had 
laid  an  embargo,  backed  with  the  full  force  of  her  blue-eyed 
earnestness,  on  his  free  speech  to  my  father. 

To  me,  he  would  speak  freely  enough.  I  remember  well,  when 
my  powerful  rendering  of  Jove's  vengeance  on  the  Titan  was 
ready  to  burst  upon  an  astonished  Universe,  that  Cooky,  on  a  visit 
to  The  Retreat  one  Sunday  morning,  as  of  old,  found  that  im- 
pressive work  of  Art  with  its  face  to  the  wall — for  I  had  had 
doubts  whether  to  court  indiscriminate  publicity  for  it — and 
turned  it  round  to  the  light  for  inspection  and  explanation. 

"  What's  all  this,  little  Buttons?  "  said  he.    "  What's  the  fun  ?  " 

"Oh — that!"  said  I,  with  a  lame  pretence  that  it  was,  as  it 
were,  a  chance  production  of  a  thoughtless  moment,  easily  for- 
gotten. "  That's  only  a  piece  of  beastly  foolery." 

"That  all?"  said  Cooky.  "I  guessed  it  was  something  of  that 
sort.  What  jolly  long  legs  you've  given  him!  Who's  the  party? 
Prometheus,  I  suppose.  Because  of  the  Vulture." 

I  had  secretly  hoped  that  Cooky  would  censure  my  estimation 
of  the  work,  and  instead  of  that  he  appeared  to  have  accepted 
it.  "  Of  course,  it's  Prometheus,"  said  I  with  dignity.  "  Nobody 
else  has  vultures." 

"Not  they!"  said  Cooky.  "They  know  better.  He  wouldn't 
have  had  his'n  if  he'd  had  his  choice.  But  he  doesn't  look  put 
out  enough  about  it.  P'raps,  though,  that's  because  the  Vulture 
hasn't  begun  ? " 

"The  Titans,"  I  said,  "were  Demigods." 

"  I  see,"  said  Cooky.    "  Of  course,  they  could  stand  anything." 

I  did  not  feel  that  this  treatment  of  the  subject  was  respectful. 
I  was  hurt,  and  showed  pique.  "  I  don't  care  about  it,"  said  I. 
"I  think  I  shall  tear  it  up  and  chuck  it  away." 

'•What's  the  good  of  doing  anything,  little  Buttons,  if  you're 
going  to  tear  it  up  and  chuck  it  away  the  minute  you  lose  your 
temper?" 

"  I  haven't  lost  my  temper." 

"  Very  well,  then — make  his  legs  a  little  shorter,  and  he'll  be  all 
right.  And  I  say " 

"  Whaw-awt  ? " 

"  Couldn't  you  manage  to  make  him  squirm  a  little.    Because, 


224  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

you  know,  little  Buttons,  a  Vulture  is  a  Vulture,  put  it  how  you 
may!" 

"  No,  I  can't.  I  can't  alter  him  now.  It's  too  late.  He 
won't  rub  out.  No — I  shall  chuck  him  away,  and  do  another." 
Which  came  to  pass,  but  not  before  Cooky's  departure  that  eve- 
ning. I  think  he  told  Gracey  of  our  interview  and  my  intention, 
and  that  enabled  Gracey  to  identify  the  Vulture's  claw  through 
the  Quality  which  the  surface  had  acquired  during  some  hours 
passed  face-down  on  the  carpet. 

I  have  just  recollected  Roberta's  reception  of  the  revelation  of 
my  genius.  It  happened  some  months  after  her  absurd  runaway 
marriage,  which  fixes  its  date  as  in  the  spring  following.  It  recalls 
what  else  I  might  easily  have  forgotten — the  young  woman's  audac- 
ity when  she  returned  from  her  honeymoon  abroad.  I  must  sub- 
mit to  the  vagaries  of  Memory,  and  allow  her  to  lead  me  back  to 
a  late  autumn  morning,  which  I  can  only  identify  as  close  to 
Guy  Fawkes  Day,  but  not  Guy  Fawkes  Day.  I  do  this  because 
as  the  image  of  a  four-wheeled  cab  becomes  clear  at  the  gate  of 
The  Retreat,  I  am  also  aware  of  the  voice  of  our  servant  Raynes 
reproaching  a  Guy  with  being  an  Anachronism,  saying  that  he  was 
an  imposition,  to  claim  a  half-penny  for  inability  to  see  why  Gun- 
powder Treason  should  pass  and  be  forgotten  on  any  day  in  the 
year  but  one.  The  youth  of  his  constituents — he  was  of  the  plural 
number;  his  soul,  or  core,  being  carried  on  a  chair  to  which  it 
had  to  be  tied  owing  to  imperfect  stuffing — must  have  excused 
this.  For  he  had  got  a  hoyp'ny,  which  might  have  been  more 
had  he  been  historically  accurate,  and  was  imposing  on  the  Prot- 
estantism of  the  Tllingsworths  by  the  time  the  four-wheeler  arrived 
at  our  gate,  and  its  contents  were  discussing  whether  they  should 
come  in,  or  should  leave  their  cards  and  be  wafted  to  some  other 
scene  temporarily,  until  my  father  returned  home.  For  Raynes 
said  that  Master  was  late,  but  couldn't  be  long  now. 

"  Oh,"  said  Roberta,  perceiving  me  at  this  point,  "  it's  you !  It's 
the  boy,  Anderson  .  .  .  Oh,  very  well — only  don't  crush  my  lace!  " 
This  arose  from  an  impression  I  had  that  my  sister,  returning 
to  her  family  under  these  circumstances,  would  want  to  be  kissed, 
however  conventionally.  T  very  nearly  said : — "  7  don't  want  to 
kiss  you,"  because  it  would  have  been  so  true.  But  I  practised  self- 
restraint,  and  Roberta  continued: — "How  long  will  Papa  be? 
That's  the  point.  Because  T  won't  come  in  if  he  isn't  here!  That's 
flat!" 

In  my  heart  I  cordially  wished  the  newly  wedded  pair  would  go 
away  anywhere  else,  and  postpone  themselves  indefinitely.  So 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  225 

I  would  say  nothing  to  encourage  them  to  stop.  I  decided  on : — 
"  The  Governor's  got  a  Committee  and  a  Board  Meeting  and  an 
Investigation  of  Accounts,  and  he  didn't  say  how  late  he'd  be. 
Awfully  late,  I  expect."  I  chose  the  functions  that  were  to  detain 
him  quite  at  random  from  an  assortment  overheard  during  the 
past  three  years.  Roberta  accepted  them  as  possible  or  probable; 
but  then  she  knew  as  little  as  I  did  about  such  things. 

'*  Very  well,  then,"  said  Roberta.  "  If  Papa  isn't  in,  I  don't  see 
the  use  of  coming  in.  Is  Ellen  in?" 

I  denied  Ellen  sufficiently — she  being  always  an  indistinct  fea- 
ture of  family  life — by  implication.  "  Varnish  is  in,"  I  said.  "  And 
Miss  Evans  is  in,  if  you  come  to  that." 

"  He's  talking  about  Mrs.  Pascoe,"  said  my  sister  to  her  lord 
and  master,  who — as  I  then  suspected,  and  later  became  con- 
vinced— was  as  wax  in  her  hands,  and  looked  to  her  for  guid- 
ance in  all  things.  "  He  may  call  her  Miss  Evans  all  day  long 
if  he  likes.  /  shan't  stop  him.  Now  look  here,  Eustace  John, 
you've  got  to  give  our  love  ....  Yes — I  know  quite  well,  Ander- 
son. I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  so  don't  fidget !  "  I  was 
dimly  conscious  of  my  new-made  brother-in-law  struggling  to 
make  his  individuality  felt  from  beneath  a  crinoline.  Probably 
no  one  who  has  never  shared  a  cab  with  a  lady  in  equivalent  skirts 
can  know  how  hopeless  this  task  was,  in  those  days.  Mr.  Gray- 
per  remained  in  compulsory  abeyance,  and  his  better-half  pro- 
ceeded— "Yes — give  our  loves.  Never  mind  what  he  says!  Give 
our  loves  to  Papa,  and  .  .  .  and  not  to  Miss  Evans,  as  you  call 
her."  .  .  . 

I  do  not  know  how  it  came  about  that  the  lady  herself,  unper- 
ceived  till  then,  was  standing  close  behind  me.  I  suppose  I  made 
no  inquiry  at  the  time,  and  now  I  have  to  accept  her  position 
under  the  gate-lamp  as  a  fact,  and  to  be  content  with  it.  There 
she  \vas,  and  there  was  her  equable  voice,  saying: — "Do  as  you 
like.  Bertie  dear.  Call  me  '  Miss  Evans '  if  it  gives  you  any 
pleasure.  Only  don't  go  away  and  disappoint  your  dear  father. 
If  you  had  any  idea  how  anxious  you  made  him !  " 

She  stopped  with  a  jerk,  I  think,  because  Roberta's  manner  was 
too  insistently  repellent  to  allow  of  negotiations;  then  continued 
without  irritation : — "  Oh — well — if  you  must,  you  must !  Or  stop 
a  minute — look  here  now! — won't  this  do?  If  I  go  upstairs  and 
keep  out  of  the  way?  You  shall  have  the  drawing-room  all  to 
yourselves!  Honour  bright!" 

I  became  conscious  of  an  abraded  head,  at  odds  with  skirts, 
a  head  involved  with  vortices  of  pleats  and  gores  and  gussets 


226  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  gathers.  Its  mouth  was  trying  to  articulate: — "1  say  now, 
Ro,  don't !  "  Wherein  I  discerned  this  young  gentleman's  private 
abbreviation  of  his  wife — one  we  had  never  used  at  home. 

"Don't  what?"  said  she,  looking  for  him  in  her  rear,  strug- 
gling with  her  concomitants.  "Don't  speak  plainly,  I  suppose?" 

"  No — don't  be  such  a  Turk.  Get  along  down  and  go  in !  I 
don't  see  anythin'  to  be  gained  by  rows.  Let's  go  in  and  be  reason- 
able! You  heard  what  Mrs.  Pascoe  said." 

My  stepmother  saw  her  opportunity  and  caught  at  it.  A  traitor 
in  the  enemy's  camp!  "Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Grayper,  for 
taking  my  part  a  little!  How  do  you  do?"  She  had  captured 
his  right  hand,  kid  glove  and  all,  with  her  beautiful  ungloved  one, 
before  any  sort  of  protest  was  possible.  I  felt  that  Jemima  was 
more  than  a  match  for  my  sister.  Besides,  she  was  wielding  that 
powerful  weapon,  forgiveness,  which  ensures  a  dance  on  the  body 
of  one's  prostrate  foe  after  the  battle. 

Circumstances  had  placed  the  new-married  lady  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. Merely  having  to  let  her  husband  out  of  a  coop,  to  shake 
hands,  compromised  her  case.  She  descended  from  the  cab  pale, 
with  a  bitten  lip,  and  remained  stony  towards  her  beie  noire; 
though,  I  confess,  I  felt  she  would  not  have  weakened  her  case 
by  tolerating  a  ceremonial  kiss.  As  it  was,  Jemima's: — "Very 
well,  dear!  I  won't  ask  you  to  kiss  me  till  you  feel  like  it,"  rather 
strengthened  that  lady's  position  than  otherwise. 

My  father's  return  was  close  upon  our  heels  as  we  entered 
the  house.  lie,  in  fact,  was  shaking  hands  with  his  son-in-law 
on  the  doorstep  when  Roberta  was  following  her  obnoxious  step- 
mother into  the  drawing-room. 

I  went  back.  Mr.  Grayper  was  trying  his  hand  on  apologetic 
semi-penitence,  and  had  evidently  been  preparing  a  speech.  But 
he  was  so  terribly  handicapped  by  the  fact  that  he  could  only 
exculpate  himself  by  blaming  his  wife  that  he  made  a  complete 
hash  of  it.  His  stammering  was  excellent  in  itself,  but  when- 
ever it  took  articulate  form  he  had  to  qualify  whatever  meaning 
had  leaked  out  with  so  many  reservations  that  his  words  might 
quite  as  well  have  been  left  unspoken.  I  can  recollect  nothing 
except  that  he  was  well  aware  of  an  immense  number  of  things, 
that,  he  yielded  to  no  one  in  a  considerable  number  of  others, 
that  his  respect  and  love  for  my  father  were  unbounded,  and  that 
the  first  and  whole  duty  of  manhood  in  respect  of  its  marital 
arrangements  was  deference  towards  the  feelings  of  its  fiance's 
families  ....  but!  Recollection  stops  here,  and  I  doubt  whether, 
if  the  young  gentleman  did  go  on  with  the  exception  to  which 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  227 

his  conjunction  pointed,  he  got  very  far  with  it.  For  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  introduce  the  point  that,  in  spite  of  his  punctilios,  he 
had  suddenly  and  without  warning  married  by  special  license  a 
young  lady  whose  family  circle  had  no  intention  of  throwing 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  a  normal  and  reasonable  union. 

My  father,  I  think,  enjoyed  his  confusion,  letting  him  run  into 
all  sorts  of  quickset  hedges  and  morasses  of  eloquence.  Then  his 
constitutional  good-nature  got  the  better  of  him,  and  he  helped 
the  unhappy  man  out  of  his  misery.  "Well — well — well!"  said 
he,  getting  himself  clear  of  a  thick  overcoat — for  the  year  was 
cooling  fast — and  then,  as  he  found  a  hook  to  hang  it  on,  adding 
as  though  a  happy  thought  had  struck  him : — "  Look  here,  my 
boy!  I've  got  a  good  idea.  Suppose  wo  say  no  more  about  it — 
eh !  "  Mr.  Grayper,  whom  my  father's  speech  makes  me  remember 
as  quite  a  young  man — no  older  than  my  sister,  in  fact — seemed  to 
me  to  welcome  the  supposition  greedily,  seizing  my  father's  hand 
and  holding  it  gratefully.  But  he  gave  up  the  attempt  to  utter 
something;  gratitude,  I  conceive.  He  seemed,  however,  to  breathe 
much  more  freely,  and  after  hanging  up  his  own  coat,  followed 
my  father  into  his  library. 

My  father's  expression  always  told  me  whether  my  company  was 
desired,  or  otherwise,  and  this  time  I  accepted  an  eye-lid-signal 
of  the  slightest  sort,  and  left  him  to  discuss  the  position  with 
his  new-found  son-in-law.  I  was  curious  to  know  how  Jemima 
and  my  sister  were  getting  on,  and  made  for  the  drawing-room. 
Voices  were  at  tension-point  within.  I  opened  the  door  gently, 
to  give  them  every  chance  of  intercepting  an  intruder.  If,  inci- 
dentally, this  gentle  opening  was  unheard  and  I  caught  a  few 
bars  of  the  conversation  within,  was  it  my  fault?  I  missed  some- 
thing my  stepmother  was  just  ending  on,  but  T  heard  the  answer. 

"Whatever  I  think,  I  shall  say  nothing.  What  can  I  prove? 
It  is  only  my  own  belief.  You  know  the  truth — yes,  your  con- 
science knows  the  truth,  Helen  Evans!  How  can  any  one  else 
know?  You  say  you  will  repeat  what  T  say  to  Papa,  but  I  know 
better.  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  How  could  you  look 
him  in  the  face,  pray?" 

The  reply  had  a- sort  of  despairing  tone: — "Oh.  Bert,  Bert,  can 
it  be  you,  to  say  such  a  dreadful  thing  of  me?  Think  what  friends 
we  have  been!"  This  was  appealing:  what  followed  had  a  sound 
of  self-defence.  "  And  you  are  so  inconsistent.  Never  to  say 
a  single  word  to  me  all  the  time  we  have  been  here  in  Chelsea! 
.  .  .  No — you  never  said  one  word  till  after  our  wedding ' 

My  sister  cut  her  off  sharply,  striking  in  with : — "  Because  I 


228  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

had  no  reason.  I  never  knew  your  motive.  ...  Is  that  door 
open?  "  I  judged  it  best  at  this  point  to  complete  the  opening  of  the 
door,  and  go  into  the  room.  Both  accepted  me  as  a  passer-by. 
Roberta  said: — "Well,  Eustace  John,  what  do  you  want?  Get 
it  and  go."  And  my  stepmother  said: — "Yes,  we're  talking."  I 
thought  it  best  to  be  ephemeral,  and  find  a  book  to  have  been  in 
want  of.  Besides,  it  was  a  little  pretence  that  soothed  my  con- 
science for  a  peccadillo;  really,  I  had  been  just  on  the  point  of 
coughing  ostentatiously  to  announce  my  presence.  When  I  left 
them  I  closed  the  door  honourably,  and  the  talking  began  again. 

Gracey's  knock  at  the  street-door — which  I  knew  well — inter- 
cepted a  half-formed  intention  on  my  part  to  try  for  admission 
into  the  library,  and  hear  what  was  going  on  there.  It  was  quite 
amicable,  as  an  occasional  laugh  showed.  I  varied  my  programme, 
not  an  imperative  one,  on  the  appearance  of  Gracey,  who  had 
been  out  on  a  shopping  excursion  with  Ellen,  whose  constitutional 
indecision  of  character  disqualified  her  for  shopping  single-handed. 
She  could  not  decide  on  a  purchase  without  an  adviser,  her  demean- 
our in  a  shop  resembling  that  of  a  Laputan  sage  whose  flapper 
had  gone  for  a  holiday.  I  answered  the  door — that  was  the  ac- 
cepted phrase — and  was  called  upon  to  account  for  the  cab  that 
still  browsed  at  our  gate,  content  with  sixpence  every  fifteen  min- 
utes till  further  notice.  That  cab  was,  I  said,  Bert  in  new  togs, 
and  her  booby,  as  large  as  life.  She  was  jawing  with  Jemima 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  her  booby  was  jawing  with  the  Gover- 
nor in  the  library.  If,  I  said,  Ellen  and  Gracey  liked  jaw,  an 
opportunity  now  offered  itself  for  glutting  themselves  therewith 
to  repletion.  I  myself,  being  sick  of  human  folly — I  forget  how 
I  put  this  point — should  go  and  see  Varnish,  and  get  some  tea. 
Varnish  was  always  good  for  tea  in  the  late  afternoon.  More- 
over, I  wanted  my  old  nurse's  views  on  the  conversation  I  had 
overheard. 

A  human  bride,  however  she  has  been  brought  about,  is  always 
a  bonne  bouche  for  her  sisters,  and  Ellen  and  Gracey  rushed  tumul- 
tuously  to  the  drawing-room  to  greet  theirs.  I  heard  their  accolade 
and  felt  that  a  provisional  peace  would  hold  good  between  Roberta 
and  her  stepmother.  I  found  Varnish  on  the  landing,  listening 
curiously.  "  Why,  Master  Jackey,"  said  she.  "  I  do  declare  if 
it  isn't  Miss  Roberta  and  young  Mr.  Grayper,  back  again ! " 

"It  just  is,"  I  said.  "And  I  say,  Varnish,  look  here!  Come 
in  and  shut  the  door."  The  door,  that  is,  of  Varnish's  reserve, 
a  room  off  the  landing.  "  I  say — what  do  you  think  ?  Bert  and 
Jemima  were  having  it  out  when  I  went  into  the  drawing-room." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  229 

" '  Ark  at  you,  Master  Eustace,  saying  Jemima!  What  would 
anybody  think,  to  hear  you?  Such  a  way  of  going  on,  I  never!" 

"  Nobody's  any  the  worse,  that  I  can  see." 

"  Because  nobody  ever  listens  to  young  gentlemen.  They're  just 
let  have  their  way.  On'y — Jemima!  Such  a  name  to  call  by!" 

"Well — what's  she  to  be  called?    Mary  Ann?    Eliza  Jane?" 

Varnish  was  driven  to  stand  at  bay,  face  to  face  with  a  per- 
plexing problem.  "  Both  of  'em  more  respeckful  than  Jemima, 
anyhow !  "  said  she,  "  but  people's  own  names  are  what  they  look 
to  be  called  by,  so  why  not  behave  according?" 

"What's  her's?" 

"  Now,  Master  Jackey,  you  know  that,  every  bit  as  well  as  me." 
But  Varnish  flinched  from  prescribing  "  Mrs.  Pascoe  "  for  my  use, 
definitely.  She  edged  away  to  seek  some  compromise.  "  Of  course, 
it  would  have  made  it  more  easy  like  if  she  could  have  kep'  Miss 
Evans  for  a  bit."  That  is  to  say,  if  the  designation  could  have 
held  good,  in  the  privacy  of  family  life,  until  some  better  one 
presented  itself.  "In  course,"  continued  Varnish,  reflectively, 
"  she  is  your  stepmamma,  and  the  young  ladies'." 

I  immediately  seized  this  solution  by  the  forelock.  "  Very  well, 
then!  Bert  and  her  stepmar  were  having  it  out,  hammer  and 
tongs,  when  1  went  into  the  drawing-room." 

I  escaped  from  complete  submission  to  an  obnoxious  title  by 
a  slight  perversion  of  it  and  a  contemptuous  accent.  I  added 
that  they  had  shut  up  now,  because  of  Ellen  and  Gracey.  but 
that  they  would  begin  again  when  the  girls  came  upstairs  and 
might  go  on  till  Doomsday. 

Varnish's  curiosity  seemed  roused.  "You  never  took  account 
of  what  they  were  saying,  I  lay,"  said  she. 

"Didn't  I,  rather?"  said  I.  I  then  repeated  exactly  the  con- 
versation I  had  just  heard,  with  all  the  confidence  of  a  shrewd 
young  memory.  I  ascribe  my  clear  recollection  of  it  now  to  its 
duplication  at  the  time,  for  Varnish's  benefit. 

It  is  an  instance  of  how  things  the  stupidity  of  boyhood  ac- 
cepted without  comment  come  back  to  me  in  maturity  to  baffle 
investigation  of  their  causes,  that  I  took  Varnish's  cross-examina- 
tion, as  to  my  recollection  of  these  chance  words  I  had  over- 
heard, as  a  matter  of  course.  Later  on  in  life,  when  I  have  pon- 
dered over  this  story  of  my  father's  second  marriage,  I  have  thought 
to  myself — what  would  I  not  give  for  speech  once  again  with  dear 
old  Varnish,  long  dead,  to  ask  her  what  was  passing  in  her  mind, 
that  she  should  be  so  keen  to  know  every  word  that  passed  between 
Roberta  and  her  stepmother.  As  it  is,  I  can  only  recall  that 


230  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

her  demeanour  outwent  the  occasion  I  conceive  for  it  now.  Her 
long  silences,  broken  by  interjections,  as: — "Mercy  me!"  or: — 
"  There  now,  to  think  of  it ! "  ;  her  tense  abstraction  of  mind, 
always  coming  back  to  a  request  to  have  some  phrase  or  sen- 
tence repeated;  the  visible  ill-success  of  her  attempts  to  reconcile 
one  such  with  another — all  seem,  as  I  look  back  to  them,  to  have 
reference  to  some  train  of  thought  she  would  not  communicate  to 
me;  that  I,  at  the  time,  never  suspected.  As  time  passes  on,  and 
I,  with  memory  at  fault,  and  no  resource  of  written  documents  to 
go  back  to,  feel  that  the  thread  that  holds  me  to  the  past  grows 
more  attenuated  day  by  day,  I  have  to  be  content  with  the  belief 
that  has  done  duty  for  certainty  for  so  many  years — all  a  long 
lifetime! — that  she  thought  my  stepmother's  marriage  with  my 
father  was  schemed  by  her  from  the  day  when  my  mother  was 
laid  in  the  grave,  and  that  it  was  no  subject  for  open  speech  with 
a  mere  boy.  Yet  I  was  old  enough  even  then  to  scent  manhood 
ahead,  on  the  watch  to  pervert  all  my  healthy  natural  instincts, 
and  make  me  the  slave  of  the  World's  conventions.  I  cannot  see 
why  the  young  should  not  be  trusted  more  with  a  knowledge  of 
their  own  fast-coming  ambitions  and  passions.  Better  surely  than 
to  launch  them  on  the  sea  of  life,  without  chart  or  compass,  to 
find  out  its  shoals  for  themselves. 

Apart  from  that,  I  cannot  now  see  that  even  if  Jemima  had 
acknowledged  to  herself  her  penchant  for  my  father,  during  my 
mother's  lifetime,  she  was  so  very  much  to  blame.  After  all,  one 
is  human,  oneself. 

But  I  have  to  recollect  that  all  this  incident  of  Roberta's  return 
was  recalled  to  me  by  my  reference  to  her  opinions  about  my 
artistic  achievements,  and  these  came  to  her  knowledge  months 
after.  I  might  dwell  longer  upon  it,  and  upon  the  uncomforta- 
ble evening  that  followed — for  the  happy  couple  sent  the  cab 
away,  and  stopped  on — but  that  very  little  of  it  survives  'in  my 
mind,  and  that  does  not  tempt  me  to  remember  more.  I  prefer 
to  get  back  to  my  memories  of  the  dawn  of  Art. 

Roberta  and  her  husband  drifted  away  from  us,  which  may 
have  been  partly  owing  to  their  starting  housekeeping,  in  a  villa 
at  Petersham.  It  was  a  good  distance  from  Wandsworth,  where 
the  Brewery  was;  but  not  so  very  much  farther,  when  you  came 
to  think  of  it,  than  the  young  man's  mother's  house  at  Roehamp- 
ton.  It  was,  however,  at  least  a  hundred  miles  from  Chelsea, 
measured  by  the  only  accurate  gauge  of  distance,  imagination. 
The  consequence  was  that,  as  Petersham  kept  its  distance  from 
Chelsea,  my  sister  Grayper  seldom  came  near  her  family.  I  rather 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  231 

think  that  she  had  not  done  so  for  near  upon  three  months,  when 
one  day  Gracey  took  advantage  of  a  visit  from  her  to  leave  a 
portfolio,  in  which  she  had  enshrined — if  the  expression  is  not 
too  strong — some  important  examples  of  my  work,  on  the  drawing- 
room  table  near  her,  in  a  manner  to  invite  inspection.  Her 
sister  may  have  felt  curiosity  to  know  its  contents — for  in  the 
fifties  people  did — about  portfolios  and  books  and  things.  Now- 
adays the  side-tapes  of  the  former  are,  like  the  young  lady  of 
Ryde's  shoestrings,  seldom  untied. 

On  this  occasion  Roberta  took  the  offered  bait,  asking  Gracey 
•what  she  had  got  in  that  new  portfolio.  It  looked  a  very  good 
one.  How  much  was  it?  The  price  of  it  nearly  elbowed  its  con- 
tents out  of  Court. 

Gracey  said: — "Never  mind!  Do  you  want  to  see  what's  in  it 
or  not?  That's  the  question?" 

Said  Roberta,  superciliously : — "  What  have  you  got  in  it  ?  Oh, 
drawings !  " 

"What  did  you  expect,  Bert?"  said  Gracey.  "Flatfish?" 
Whereupon  Ellen,  near  at  hand,  remarked : — "  How  silly  you  are, 
Gracey!  You  know  flatfish  are  impossible,  in  portfolios."  Gracey 
said  she  didn't  see  that;  but  then  that  was  only  her  contradic- 
tiousness.  It  had,  however,  the  effect  of  rousing  speculation  in 
Ellen's  mind  as  to  the  possibility  of  flatfish  in  portfolios,  and  she 
kept  up  thereafter  a  short  of  Greek  Chorus  on  the  subject,  which 
lasted  out  the  interview. 

"Have  I  got  to  admire  these?"  said  Roberta,  turning  them 
over  with  disrespectful  rapidity.  "  Who  did  them  ?  Your  Jew, 
I  suppose  ? " 

"That's  a  bad  shot!"  I  was  looking  out  of  a  distant  window, 
affecting  abstraction,  as  I  contributed  this  remark.  "  Cooky  doesn't 
go  in  for  this  sort  of  humbugging." 

"Oh— that's  the  boy!"  said  Roberta.  "What  sort  of  hum- 
bugging does  Cooky,  as  you  call  him,  go  in  for?" 

I  muttered  a  statement  in  reply,  which  Gracey  interpreted  to 
Europe.  "  Mathematics  and  Music,"  said  she.  "  Monty  has  no 
turn  for  Art." 

"Then  who  did  them?  The  boy,  I  suppose?  Well— they're 
very  bad !  " 

"Oh,  Bert,  how  can  you  be  so  unkind?"  Thus  Gracey,  hurt 
and  disappointed,  but  not  quite  sure  that  such  a  preposterous 
criticism  should  be  taken  seriously. 

The  Greek  Chorus  was  going  on,  obligato.  I  believe  it  was 
saying : — "  If  the  fish  were  ever  so  thin,  three  of  them  would  be 


332  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

too  thick  for  any  portfolio.  And  no  Holland  flaps  could  possibly 
prevent  their  getting  out,  if  they  were  alive.  So  it's  no  use." 

"  I  didn't  say  fish  in  earnest^  £11,"  said  Gracey.  "  It  was  only 
a  way  of  speaking." 

"  I  think  it  was  a  very  silly  way.  I  think  the  sooner  you  leave 
off  speaking  in  such  ways,  the  better.  Because  it  isn't  witty, 
whatever  you  think."  It  is  just  possible  Memory  has  dressed 
up  and  exaggerated  my  poor,  dea-r  sister  Ellen's  method.  But 
really,  the-  conviction  that  the  foregoing,  or  some  equivalent,  is 
what  she  must  have  said,  is  irresistible. 

Roberta  was  turning  over  the  drawings,  commenting: — "Have 
these  things  been  shown  to  any  one  who  knows  about  drawing? 
They  ought  to  be  shown  to  an  Artist,  a  real  one,  if  his  opinion, 
is  to  have  any  weight.  /  think  them  very  bad,  but  then,  I'm  not 
a  Judge." 

The  Greek  Chorus  continued: — "That's  exactly  what  7  say. 
But,  oh  dear,  it's  no  use!  Nobody  ever  listens  to  me,  and  Gracey 
talks  nonsense  about  fishes  in  a  portfolio.  7  give  up."  Ellen  was 
very  near  the  truth  in  one  thing.  No  one  ever  did  listen  to 
her. 

Roberta  on  this  occasion  did  not.  She  went  on,  as  though  no 
Greek  Chorus  existed: — "Why  not  ask  Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  She's 
considered  a  Judge,  I  know.  Anyhow,  she  knows  real  Artists, 
with  Studios.  She  knows  Gromp,  certainly,  if  she  knows  nobody 
else." 

I  had  never  heard  the  name  of  the  great  man  she  referred  to. 
It  wasn't  really  Gromp;  however,  Gromp  impresses  as  his  did. 
The  real  name  I  have  forgotten,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  my 
soul,  as  it  were,  rose  to  it,  acknowledging  its  owner  as  the  highest 
human  authority  on  things  Artistic.  Even  so  when  some  person, 
of  weight  says,  of  a  patient  who  has  been  pronounced  a  sufferer 
from  Polysyllabitis: — "lie  must  have  the  best  advice.  He  must 
see  Smilax,  at  once!"  one  feels  that  Smilax,  of  whom  one  has 
never  heard  before,  spells  salvation  for  any  sufferer  from  such 
a  complex  disorder.  I  was  a  stranger  to  the  name  of  Gromp,  but 
when  I  felt  that  he  had  been  actual,  though  I  knew  him  not,  my 
ignorance  of  him  began  to  have  the  force  of  knowledge.  Retro- 
spectively, I  recognized  Gromp.  But  I  was  afraid  of  him,  for  all 
that. 

"  Of  course,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  have  to  do  something  heaps  bet- 
ter than  those  things,  before  they  can  be  shown  to  a  Swell."  A 
hurried  vision  passed  through  my  mind  of  a  really  great  design 
of  Chaos,  Tartarus.  Erebus,  The  Fall  of  Satan,  the  last  Judg- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  233 

merit — something  really  powerful  that  would  convince  the  Swell, 
and  reveal  me  in  my  true  light.  I  was  disconcerted  at  Roberta's 
attitude.  "  You'll  have  to  do  something  heaps  better,  young  man," 
said  she  drily,  and  wanted  to  talk  about  something  else. 

I  was  dissatisfied,  as  I  felt  that  not  only  my  abilities,  but  my 
modesty,  should  receive  acknowledgment.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I 
saw  no  way  of  bringing  it  on  the  tapis  except  by  vilipending 
Gracey's  judgment.  "  It  isn't  my  idea,"  said  I.  "  Only  Gee  would 
buy  a  portfolio  for  'em.  and  stick  'em  in."  Gee  was  Gracey,  indi- 
cated by  her  initial.  The  dear  girl  had  bought  the  portfolio 
out  of  her  pocket  money,  and  I  used  it  as  a  fulcrum  for  a  spurious 
self-abasement.  Rather  in  fear  that  my  humility  would  be  ac- 
cepted, T  thought  it  best  to  emphasize  it — as  it  seemed  to  me — 
beyond  all  reason,  so  as  to  ensure  its  repudiation.  "  7  think  them 
rot,"  said  T,  with  decision. 

"  So  do  T,"  said  Roberta,  unexpectedly.  "  However,  don't  be- 
lieve me.  Ask  any  Judge.  Ask  Gromp.  Get  Goody  Walkinshaw 
to  give  you  an  introduction  to  her  Gromp,  if  she  knows  him.  I 
don't  believe  she  knows  him." 

I  believe  the  Greek  Chorus  was  still  dealing  with  the  fishes, 
but  this  speech  brought  her  again  into  touch  with  humanity.  "  T 
do  not  see,  Bert,"  snirl  Ellen,  "why  you  are  so  nasty  about  Mrs. 
Walkinshaw.  She  may  not  be  a  Judge,  but  at  any  rate  she  comes 
of  a  very  old  Lincolnshire  family,  and  one  of  them  was  beheaded 
under  Henry  the  Somethingth — I  forget  which — and  another  was 
Sir  Stephen  Walkinshaw,  known  as  The  Apostate,  and  really  His- 
tory. And  whatever  she  has  done  to  deserve  to  be  Goodied,  I 
cannot  imagine.  As  if  she  was  a  Hag!  "  And  so  forth. 

If  my  father  had  come  into  the  room  two  minutes  later,  Roberta 
would  have  given  up  her  portfolio — that  sounds  Parliamentary — 
and  it  would  have  been  laid  on  the  table — so  does  that — where  it 
belonged,  near  the  window.  But,  as  it  happened,  he  entered  the 
room  just  as  she  was  saying: — "Well — Hag  or  no  Hag.  she  can 
be  asked  about  Gromp,  and  she  can  back  out  if  it  was  fibs." 
One  is  not  obliged  to  bring  down  family  speech  to  standard  proba- 
bility, in  writing  what  is  never  to  be- read!  So  I  leave  my  sis- 
ters' phrases  untinkered. 

My  father,  patriarchally  good-humoured,  accepted  them,  but 
asked  for  elucidation.  "  Who's  been  telling  fibs  about  Gromp, 
and  what  is  Gromp  she  told  fibs  about?"  Being  enlightened,  he 
said: — "But  Gromp's  a  royal  Academician!  One  couldn't  ask 
a  Royal  Academician  about  pencil  drawings "  This  seemed  so 
plausible — I  don't  know  why — that  Gromp  went  into  abeyance,  to 


234  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

crop  up  later.  My  sister's  husband,  who  had  come  in  with  my 
father,  began  looking  at  my  drawings,  and  put  his  foot  in  it 
forthwith,  being  shut  up,  or  down,  by  his  wife.  If  he  had  con- 
fined himself  to  holding  them  at  a  distance,  and  leaning  his  head 
to  right  and  left  to  foster  art-visibility — let  the  word  stand! — bis 
position  would  have  been  comparatively  safe.  But  he  must  needs 
say  they  were  not  half -bad.  considering!  Whereupon,  Koberta 
said  tartly: — "Then  I  shouldn't  consider,  if  I  were  you!" 

But  Gromp  was  not  destined'  to  disappear.  The  next  time 
the  Hag  was  to  the  fore,  she  broached  him,  claiming  a  life-long 
intimacy.  In  fact,  she  suggested  that  only  the  fascinations  of 
her  departed  Walkinshaw  had  stood  between  herself  and  Gromp 
at  the  Altar.  Whereby,  Gromp,  unable  to  meet  with  charms  like 
hers  elsewhere,  had  become  a  non-marrying  man,  and  lived  chiefly 
on  hard-boiled  eggs  and  milk  in  a  Studio  that  had  been  a  dis- 
senting chapel  at  Clapham  Rise.  He  never  saw  a  living  soul,  and 
admitted  no  one  within  its  walls,  but  a  letter  from  her  would  be 
Open  Sesame — would  operate  like  magic.  My  father  had  only 
to  say  the  word,  and  she  would  make  an  appointment  for  him 
with  this  Royal  Academician,  even  with  Gromp. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  WAS  not  destined  to  see  Gromp  in  the  flesh  for  a  long  time 
after.  He  had  to  live  on  hard-boiled  eggs  for  another  clear  twelve- 
month yet  before  I  experienced  that  satisfaction.  For  my  father 
put  his  foot  down  firmly  on  every  attempt  to  bring  the  Fine  Arts 
into  the  arena  of  serious  discussion  as  a  profession  for  his  son, 
until  I  had  finished  my  course  at  school,  and  attended  lectures 
for  at  least  a  year  at  the  College.  Even  with  that  delay  I  should 
still  be  short  of  nineteen — scarcely  old  enough  to  make  the  choice 
of  a  profession  compulsory. 

I  think  my  father's  imagination  was  misled  by  the  word  Col- 
lege. He  could  not  dissociate  it  from  his  old  University  life,  with 
its  intoxicating  traditions  of  ancient  learning;  its  freedom  of 
sacred  precincts  where  every  stone  brings  back  its  memories  of 
bygone  scholars;  its  great  silent  libraries,  whose  peace  alone  is 
stimulus  enough  to  make  an  otherwise  bookless  man  read  out 
the  day,  and  part  reluctantly  in  the  end  with  the  quarto  or  folio 
he  never  would  have  looked  into  elsewhere.  He  had  never  known 
how  much  of  his  own  love  for  the  classics  was  due  to  the  associa- 
tions of  the  spot  where  they  had  reached  his  soul,  and  he  fancied 
that  his  son  too  might  be  bitten  with  the  love  of  Literature,  or, 
it  may  be,  of  the  practice  of  thinking — mathematical  or  scientific 
thinking — by  the  surroundings  of  a  College.  But,  honestly  as  I 
believe  that  tfiere  was  not  in  the  world,  in  my  time,  a  sounder 
curriculum  of  learning  than  the  one  he  offered  me,  it  had  one 
defect.  There  was  nothing  in  the  places  of  study,  in  their  ante- 
cedents and  surroundings,  to  catch  and  hold  the  imagination  of 
a  crude  boy,  who,  behind  his  many  faults — which  I  do  not  think 
my  words  conceal — had  one  predominant  impulse  of  the  mind, 
which  was  ready  to  grasp  good  or  evil,  truth  or  falsehood,  accord- 
ing to  the  garb  it  came  in.  My  year  of  College  life — in  no  sense 
Collegiate  life — placed  the  banquet  of  learning  before  me  ungar- 
nished  and  colourless,  and  my  father  wondered  why  the  dishes 
that  had  tempted  his  intellectual  palate  in  the  library  or  the 
gardens  of  Peterhouse  should  be  tasteless  to  his  son's  in  Gower 
Street.  Surely,  a  College  is  a  College,  wherever  chance  has  placed 
it.  He  attached  no  weight  whatever  to  University  residence,  as 

235 


236  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

against  home  and  daily  attendance.  Of  what  advantage  was  it  to 
a  studious  youth  to  be  shut  out  of  his  College  after  hours?  Would 
any  amount  of  gating  make  study  acceptable  to  an  unstudious  one? 
No — it  was  manifestly  my  natural  aversion  to  letters,  developed 
as  soon  as  application  to  them  became  optional ;  for  that  was 
a  condition  precedent  of  College-manhood,  no  longer  schoolboy- 
hood.  And  lore,  artificially  injected  into  the  recesses  of  an  un- 
willing brain,  under  a  pumping  force  of  Black  Books  and  Im- 
positions, would  be  rejected  by  that  stomach  of  the  intellect  at 
the  first  convenient  opportunity.  Whereas  my  propensity  to  draw- 
ing incidents  of  Greek  Mythology  and  English  History,  however 
fatuous  its  results  were,  was  judged  by  him  to  be  possibly  the  result 
of  an  inherent  energy  of  the  soul,  the  vapidity  and  awkwardness 
of  whose  first  developments  only  needed  guidance  to  make  it  bear 
rich  crops  of  fruit,  with — said  Hope — opulence  and  fame,  for  its 
possessor. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  evidently  a  point  which  he  could  not  decide 
on  his  own  responsibility.  Even  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  squeal  of  rap- 
ture, when  Gracey  showed  her  with  delight  my  design  of  Narcis- 
sus, in  the  boat  of  Charon,  detecting  his  image  in  the  waters  of 
Styx,  could  not  move  him  from  his  decision  to  mistrust  his  own 
judgment.  He  gave  way,  however,  thus  far,  that  he  would  send 
me  to  a  real  School  of  Art,  where  I  should  have  Training;  and  if 
Training  should  train  me  effectually,  and  make  him  feel  that 
Art  was  not  an  Ignis  Fatuus,  but  a  substantial  reality,  he  would 
accompany  me  armed  with  the  first  evidence  of  that  substantial 
reality,  into  the  august  presence  of  Gromp,  or  a  congener,  and 
act  on  such  advice  as  might  be  vouchsafed  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  my  stepmother  was  unconsciously  advancing  the 
interests  of  the  Ignis  Fatuus.  How  fortunate  it  is,  by  the  by, 
that  I  have  no  one  to  satisfy  but  my  Self!  Think  how  smug  and 
tidy  metaphor  would  have  had  to  become,  under  the  rod  of  Pub- 
lication !  In  her  anxiety  that  the  gentility  of  my  forbears  should 
not  be  dragged  through  the  mire  by  my  adoption  of  an  ungenteel 
profession,  she  never  perceived  that  every  lament  she  uttered  over 
the  degringolade  of  his  race  biassed  my  father  towards  approval  of 
a  Jack-o'-Lantern,  whose  guidance  he  only  mistrusted  because  its 
follower  might  be  landed  in  the  mire  of  poverty.  For  his  common- 
sense  told  him  that  the  World  would  never  lack  respect  for  mone- 
tary success;  and,  granting  that,  that  its  most  pernicious  snob- 
beries would  drive  a  coach-and-six  through  the  usages  and  dis- 
tinctions his  wife  vouched  for,  of  which  he  himself  knew  little 
enough,  and  cared  to  know  less. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  237 

"  Tush,  Jacky  boy !  "  said  he  to  me  one  day,  when  I  had  summed 
up  some  reports  of  conversation  by  ascribing  to  my  -stepmother 
the  words : — "  All  Artists  are  cads."  "  We're  all  cads  at  this  shop. 
Your  father,  my  dear  boy,  is  a  ruined  stock-jobber.  His  old 
friend  who  is  coming  to  dinner  tonight  is  an  auctioneer,  and  your 
great  churn  is  a  low,  vulgar  Jew."  I  remember  this  almost  word 
for  word,  and  that  he  a'1  '"  '  reflectively: — "  It  is  worthy  of  remark 
that  Nebuchadnezc;  '  :•:;!  been  going  it  with  kings  and  mas- 

sacres and — and  the  -jc-ratic  conduct  generally,  two  or 

three  thousand  years  DC  » illiam  the  Norman  founded  De- 

brett."  My  father's  figures  were  loose,  and  his  designation  of 
Cooky  was  dictatedly  a  schoolboy  rhyme  rather  than  historical 
warrant.  My  impression  is  that  its  hero  is  inaccurately  described, 
and  I  cannot  conceive  that  any  good  authority  bears  out  the 
statement  of  his  very  unaristocratic  conduct.  I  must  ask  Mr. 
Turner  about  this — the  first  point,  I  mean;  neither  point  being 
either  here  or  there.  What  is  to  the  purpose  is  that  the  more 
stress  my  stepmother  laid  on  the  desirability  of  a  respectable  pro- 
fession for  her  stepson,  the  more  leniently  my  father  seemed  to 
look  upon  the  one  which,  as  she  alleged,  was  little  short  of  dis- 
reputable. 

"  Somebody  else  must  settle  all  that  part  of  the  job,"  said  he. 
"  Somebody  that  knows.  I  honestly  confess  that  I  have  never  met 
a  gentleman  in  my  life.  .  .  .  Well — I've  never  met  a  he  male 
who  answered  to  all  the  specifications!  A  gentleman  never  sneers, 
nor  swears,  nor  spits.  I'm  sure  I  could  find  chapter  and  verse  for 
all  three,  and  I'm  equally  sure — though  I  can't  advance  proof — 
that  I  never  knew  any  chap  that  didn't  do  either  one  or  other 
of  them.  Just  you  take  notice  of  the  next  man  you  meet  that 
doesn't  swear  or  spit,  and  see  if  he  doesn't  sneer.  I'm  not  vouch- 
ing for  anything — I'm  only  suggesting  guides  to  observation.  Be- 
sides, I'm  told  a  gentleman  always  keeps  his  word."  My  father 
paused,  with  retrospection  written  on  his  face,  then  concluded: — 
"  No — I'm  convinced  that  I  have  never  met  a  gentleman  in  my 
life,  not  a  real  one ! " 

"It's  only  Papa's  nonsense!"  said  Gracey.  "He  knows  per- 
fectly well  that  all  his  friends  keep  their  words." 

"  They  don't,"  said  my  father.  "  Not  if  nobody  else  hasn't 
overheard  their  words.  I  mean  not  unless  somebody  else  has. 
And  then  not  unless  you  remind  'em  of  it." 

"  I  call  that  silly,"  said  Gracey.  "  Because  it's  so  little  trouble 
to  remind  anybody  of  anything." 

"  I  feel,"  said  my  father,  "  that  the  conversation  is  getting  out 


238  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

of  my  depth,  possibly  out  of  its  own.  Chuck  me  a  walnut,  and 
the  crackers."- 

My  stepmother  always  kept  silence  during  sporadic  discussions 
by  the  family  of  this  subject,  as  she  did  on  this  after-dinner  occa- 
sion. Her  relation  to  the  question  was  too  real,  too  fraught  with 
responsibility  to  Society,  her  husband,  and  herself,  to  regard  it  as 
a  subject  for  ingenious  paradoxes  and  quips  of  logic.  She  retired 
to  an  inner  sanctum  of  the  Temple  of  Social  Usage,  where  she 
could  hold  converse  with  High  Priests,  or  at  least  with  acolytes — 
with  some  one  at  least  who  could  speak  from  its  inner  shrine  with 
authority.  I  have  noticed  since  those  days  that  the  highest  priests 
of  the  Unholy  Trinity — the  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil — are 
very  hard  to  get  at;  the  attainable  votaries  of  the  first  always 
alleging  the  existence  of  a  higher  rank  still,  mysteries  in  impene- 
trable clouds  described  as  the  very  best  circles;  while  those  of  the 
second  and  third  are  able  to  point  to  depths  of  iniquity  compared 
to  which  their  own  haunts  of  vicious  dissipation  are  mere  Arca- 
dian solitudes.  As  for  their  Pope,  the  Vicar  of  Satan  on  earth, 
no  one  has  ever  seen  him.  Therefore,  it  was  that  my  father 
said  to  me  more  than  once,  in  this  connection : — "  Yes,  Master 
Jackey,  your  stepmamma  and  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  must  square  it  up 
with  Society.  Society  isn't  my  line." 

It  struck  me  that  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  considered  as  a  moral 
balustrade,  was  scarcely  a  safe  one  to  rely  upon.  For  when 
Jemima  appealed  to  her  to  support  her  views,  and  save  me  from 
social  degeneracy,  she  exclaimed : — "  My  dear,  I'm  sure  you're 
right!  I'm  certain  you're  right!  All  you  say  is  exactly  what  my 
aunt  Apollonia  would  have  said.  She  "was  a  Paletot,  you  know, 
and  became  the  third  Lady  Wheelbarrow.  And  the  Authority  she 
was  on  points  of  this  sort!  Everything  was  referred  to  her — abso- 
lutely everything!"  The  good  lady  became,  as  it  were,  rapt  in 
ecstasy  over  the  multitude  of  things  that  had  been  decided  by 
the  late  Lady  Wheelbarrow,  whose  names,  Christian,  maiden,  and 
married,  I  have  got  wrong,  the  ones  I  give  being  those  most  palata- 
ble to  my  memory.  Her  niece  spoiled  her  implied  encomium  of 
my  stepmother  by  ending  suddenly: — "But  don't  ask  my  opinion. 
In  all  worldly  matters  I  am  worse  than  useless — a  child." 

I  heard  Jemima  say: — "How?"  and,  looking  up  from  a  book 
I  was  not  absorbed  in,  I  saw  that  she  seemed  really  puzzled.  I 
find  I  recall  moments  at  about  this  time  of  my  Iffe  when  I  begin 
to  recognize  the  good  looks  of  my  stepmother.  This  was  one 
of  them. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  closed  her  eyes  to  picture  to  herself  her  ante- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  239 

cedent  past.  "  It  has  been  so  with  me  from  childhood,"  said  she. 
"  As  a  mere  girl  I  flung  worldly  Considerations  to  the  winds. 
Pretence  has  always  been  useless,  so  I  never  pretend.  Art,  Music, 
Poetry  are  my  idols.  I  may  be  wrong."  A  defiant  humility  threw 
down  a  challenge  to  the  Universe. 

My  stepmother  let  it  lie  on  the  ground,  merely  saying: — "  No — 
I'm  sure  you  are  right,  looking  at  it  from  that  point  of  view." 
Which  seemed  to  me  altogether  without  meaning,  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw's  point  of  view  not  having  been  reached.  But  the  inten- 
tion of  it  was  merely  to  extinguish  the  good  lady,  as  she  seemed 
to  be  declaring  off  the  social  tenets  her  friend  had  been  seeking 
her  support  for.  She  was  not  the  sort  to  take  extinction  lying 
down,  and  enlarged  upon  the  topic  impressively.  "  If — you  knew. 
If — you — knew !  "  She  repeated  the  phrase  of tener  than  was  nec- 
essary, landing  at  last  on  its  raison-d'etre: — "If  you  knew  how 
I  have  been  preached  at  by  my  aunts  and  sisters — yes! — and 
daughters,  all  of  them  disciples  of  my  Aunt  Apollonia !" 

"If  I  knew?  :  .  .  I  should  .  .  .  ?"  Jemima  threw  out  sugges- 
tions for  the  completion  of  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  sentence,  that  lady 
having  come  to  a  dead  stop  apparently  for  no  better  purpose  than 
to  nod  her  head  with  her  eyes  shut,  like  a  Chinese  mandarin. 

She  responded,  rather  tartly: — "You  would  wonder  I  had  sur- 
vived to  have  any  convictions  at  all.  But  it  has  always  been  a 
peculiarity  of  mine,  to  be  true  to  myself.  Others  may  be  slaves 
of  Mammon  and  Croesus,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  do  not 
quarrel  with  them — they  must  go  their  way,  including  my  Aunt 
Apollonia,  and  I  must  go  mine.  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Pascoe" — 
she  left  them  to  go  their  way  unchecked,  and  became  cosy  and 
confidential — "  I  will  tell  you  exactly  what  1  feel  about  this  dear 
boy."  She  dropped  her  voice  till  I  had  to  listen  hard  to  hear 
anything,  so  I  may  be  wrong  in  supposing  that  she  said  that  I 
had  Genius  written  in  every  pore.  My  mind  assigns  those  words 
to  her,  and  Memory  accepts  them  in  silence.  Other  fragments 
came  to  me  disjointedly,  to  the  effect  that  the  precepts  of  Aunt 
Apollonia  should  be  allowed  to  lie  dormant  until  at  least  the 
decision  of  the  great  Gromp  had  been  sought  for  as  to  the  trust- 
worthiness of  these  inscriptions.  I  gathered  also  that  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw  had  a  strong  inner  conviction — not  unconnected  with  In- 
spiration— that  the  decision  would  be  favourable. 

Therefore,  Gromp  remained,  as  a  Rhadamanthus  of  the  near 
future,  until  I  should  complete  at  Slocum's,  my  inoculator  with 
the  germs  of  Academic  Art,  a  drawing  from  the  Antique — a  solemn 
thought  in  itself — worthy  to  be  formally  submitted  to  Gromp, 


240  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

to  enable  him  to  settle  whether  its  author  was,  or  was  not,  quali- 
fied by  nature  for  the  career  of  a  real  artist,  with  a  studio  and 
lay  figures  and  things,  like  himself.  I  have  often  thought  that 
the  conspiracy  to  elicit  from  Gromp  an  opinion  on  which  would 
turn  the  career  of  a  young  man,  with  a  disposition  to  hold  him 
responsible  for  any  disaster  which  that  young  man  might  encoun- 
ter in  consequence,  was  a  little  unfair  on  Gromp.  However,  I 
suspect  that  that  gentleman  had  been  the  victim  of  many  similar 
conspiracies,  and  had  decided  on  superhuman  caution  in  every 
such  case  made  and  provided. 

I  contrived  to  get  inducted  into  the  real  School  of  Art,  where 
I  was  to  have  Training,  some  months  before  the  expiration  of 
the  term  of  Collegiate  life  1  had  pledged  myself  to.  I  believe 
I  achieved  this  by  showing  distinctly  that  I  had  no  intention  of 
doing  any  more  work  in  the  classes  or  out  of  them.  My  father 
had  some  acquaintance  with  one  of  the  classical  professors,  and 
this  gentleman  felt  it  his  duty  to  forward  to  him  a  portrait  of 
himself  which  ho  had  caught  me  executing  in-  class-time,  and 
confiscated.  His  letter  to  my  father  said : — "  I  have  no  objection 
to  being  represented  as  the  Tragic  Muse,  but  I  think  even  the 
Tragic  Muse,  if  she  had  caught  one  of  her  pupils  wasting  his  own 
time  and  his  father's  money,  would  (especially  if  she  had  been 
at  Cambridge  with  his  father)  have  thought  it  her  duty  to  com- 
municate with  headquarters.  Don't  blow  your  boy  up  much — he 
is  very  young." 

My  father  did  not  blow  me  up,  but  he  did  what  was  more 
effective.  After  producing  the  Tragic  Muse  and  asking  if  that  was 
what  I  supposed  I  was  at  College  for,  he  told  me  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  not  to  enter  me  for  another  session.  I  might  go 
to  Slocunrs,  or  whatever  his  name  was,  and  see  what  sort  of  a 
hash  I  should  make  of  the  Antique,  which  he  understood  to  mean 
plaster  casts.  I  was  just  thinking  how  glad  I  was  he  took  it  so 
easily,  and  what  a  fortunate  youngster  I  was  to  have  so  lenient 
a  parent,  when  he  added,  sadly: — "I  sometimes  feel  almost  glad, 
my  boy,  that  your  mamma  is  not  here  any  longer.  There — go  away 
and  draw  things!"  I  went  away,  but  I  had  no  heart  to  draw 
things. 

I  felt  inclined  to  throw  all  my  Artist's  Materials  into  the  dirty 
dust-bin,  and  go  back  and  beg  and  pray  my  father  to  allow  me 
at  least  to  carry  out  the  scheme  he  had  first  planned  for  me. 
But  my  dear  little  sister,  my  Evil  Genius  unawares,  was  at  hand 
to  neutralize  my  wiser  instincts,  and  poison  my  mind  with  a 
creed  she  firmly  believed,  that  the  right  course  for  me  would  be 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  241 

to  throw  my  whole  soul  into  Training,  and  the  Antique,  and 
prove  the  wisdom  of  forsaking  the  Greek  Tragedians  and  the 
Binomial  Theorem — 1  remember  both,  thenabouts — for  something 
in  which  I  felt  a  keener  interest.  Gracey  cried  over  me  in  my 
dejection  in  earnest,  and,  of  course,  made  me  perceive  that  the 
road  I  wished  to  tread  was  also  the  one  1  was  morally  bound 
to  take,  especially  in  my  father's  interest.  It  was  wonderful  how 
keenly  alive  1  became  to  my  father's  interest  when  Gracey,  in 
perfect  good  faith,  pointed  this  out. 

So,  next  spring  saw  me  a  real  Art-Student,  drawing  a  Globe 
from  nature.  I  suppose,  however,  that  "  nature "  is  a  misnomer, 
as  the  Sphaera  Mundi,  has  all  the  nature  to  itself;  at  least,  if,  in 
the  country  where  they  make  the  Definitions,  the  Authorities  can 
shut  their  eyes  to  a  slight  flattening  at  the  poles.  Also  a  mis- 
nomer in  respect  of  the  absence  from  the  surface  of  my  Globe  of 
all  those  beautiful  lines  there  arc  in  real  nature,  ecliptics  and 
equators,  and  so  forth,  and  signs  of  the  zodiac  that  make  one's 
mouth  water,  especially  Scorpio.  While  as  for  finding  the  longi- 
tude on  my  Globe.  .  .  .  Well — you  know  what  a  job  it  is  on  the 
original!  And  this  Globe  1  drew  was  all  over  like  the  interior 
of  Africa  when  1  was  a  boy.  I  am  told  that  Companies  are  devel- 
oping it  now. 

I  wish  that  I  had  put  into  anything  I  have  ever  done  in  life 
one-half  the  earnestness  and  zeal  I  spent  on  making  that  Globe 
round  and  solid.  1  believe  that  in  doing  so  1  was  indebted  to  the 
fact  that  there  is  absolutely  nothing  in  the  whole  world  so  easy 
as  to  draw  a  Globe.  First  one  outlines  a  full  moon,  then  draws  a 
crescent  moon  into  the  outline  just  opposite  where  the  light  re- 
flects, or  would  reflect  if  shiny.  You  can  see  this  by  looking  at 
nature.  Then  you  hatch  black  lines — at  least,  we  did  at  Slo- 
cum's — all  over  the  crescent  moon.  And  then  comes  a  delightful 
surprise.  When  you  fill  up  the  hatching,  so  that  the  lines  dis- 
appear, you  perceive  with  joy  that  a  perfectly  even  rich,  velvety 
black  is  appearing  on  your  handmade  paper,  and  this  makes  you 
foresee  a  great  career  for  yourself,  with  decorations  and  ateliers. 
Then  you  tone  it  up,  like  anybody  will  show  you  that's  done  it 
before,  and  he'll  give  you  a  start  with  the  pedestal ;  only  you'll 
have  to  go  by  nature,  for  that.  On  the  propriety  of  drawing  chips 
out  on  the  pedestal,  where  they  came  in  nature,  opinions  were 
divided.  Some  held  with  doing  it,  because  it  was  rather  a  lark, 
others  considered  it  meretricious.  The  dispositions  of  the  former 
were  sensuous — of  the  latter  severe.  I  attached  myself  to  the 
former  school,  but  felt  humiliated  when  Slocum  himself  said  lie 


242  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

saw  no  harm  in  doing  it  if  I  liked,  only  it  was  so  easy  to  do 
he  couldn't  see  the  fun  of  it.  I  believe  I  should  have  taken  these 
appeals  to  the  gallery  out,  only  the  size  was  ready,  not  the  dimen- 
sions— thoso  were  intrinsic — but  the  hot  size  for  fixing,  which 
mustn't  be  let  get  cold;  and  once  you  size  a  drawing,  there's  no 
getting  anything  out. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  when  I  proudly  carried  home  my 
Globe  and  exhibited  it  to  my  family,  these  chips  and  blemishes 
on  the  pedestal  were  at  once  accepted  by  them  as  proof  that  T 
was  Praxiteles,  Titian,  Raphael,  Michelangelo — any  one  of  the 
great  ones  of  old  whose  name  sounded  well  to  say — or,  at  least, 
that  I  was  all  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  fancy  painted  me.  I  vainly 
attempted  to  call  attention  to  the  nobler  qualities  of  the  draw- 
ing. Those  abominable  fractures  asserted  themselves  noisily,  and 
•would  not  be  silenced. 

My  father  said: — "  H'm,  well!  That's  all  very  fine.  Now,  is 
this  to  get  you  into  the  Academy?  Is  it  to  be  shown  to  Gromp, 
R.  A.?"  I  repudiated  the  idea,  forcibly.  "Well!"  m.y  father 
continued,  "  I  suppose  it's  all  right  as  far  as  it  goes.  Anyhow, 
thoso  bitsi  chipped  out  of  the  stand  are  first-rate.  Look  quite 
the  real  thing!"  And  he  looked  through  his  hand  at  them,  to 
increase  the  illusion. 

Gracey  said: — <l  Oh,  you  darling,  good  Jackey,  did  you  really 
do  that  in  a  fortnight?  1  should  have  thought  it  would  have  taken 
weeks.  It  looks  just  as  if  you  could  touch  it."  She  drew  her 
finger  over  the  bits  of  realism  I  had  hoped  she  would  not  notice. 
"I  really  thought  it  would  feel.  Oh,  how  clever  of  you!  Nelsie, 
do  come  and  see  this  lovely  drawing  Jackey  has  brought  home." 

Nelsie — that  is  Ellen — being  summoned,  came.  "Oh  dear!" 
she  said,  weakly,  "can't  you  ask  somebody  else  to  look  at  it,  that 
knows?  Yes*,  it's  very  good.  I'm  sure  it's  very  good,  by  the  look. 
I've  .got  to  see  about  letting  out  those  gathers,  and  nobody  is  any 
help  or  gives  the  slightest  advice.  Yes,  it's  very  good.  .  .  .  What 
are  those?"  She  had  been  on  the  point  of  departing  on  the  milli- 
nery errand,  whatever  it  was.  when  her  eye  was  caught  by  those 
pestilent  corrugations,  and  she  quite  brightened  up  under  their 
influence,  touching  them  with  her  finger,  as  Gracey  had  done. 
"Why — it's  quite  smooth.  How  clever!"  I  had  nearly  written 
that  this  was  the  only  time  I  ever  knew  Ellen  to  show  an  inter- 
est in  anything.  I  refrained  because  it  was  only  almost  true, 
not  quite. 

Gracey  triumphantly  carried  tho  drawing  away  to  show  to 
Varnish,  who  was  mending  something  in  the  reserve.  I  have 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  243 

scarcely  a  recollection  of  Varnish  not  mending  something,  or  not 
having  just  mended  something,  or  not  being  about  to  mend  some- 
thing. How  anything  remained  unmended  in  those  days — if  it 
ever  did! — is  more  than  I  can  imagine.  This  time,  Varnish  laid 
aside  a  woolen  undervest,  making  its  heart  sick  with  deferred 
hopes  of  a  button,  in  order  to  look  at  my  drawing. 

"Well — my  word,  now!"  said  she,  holding  it  as  far  off  as 
possible.  "  I  do  declare  it's  that  round,  and  that  smooth,  it  does 
do  one's  ?art  good,  only  to  see  it.  And  my  gracious  me,  if  Master 
Eustace  hasn't  actly  done  where  a  bit's  been  broke  out,  just 
for  all  the  world  like  real!" 

I  had  cherished  a  dim  hope  that  the  smoothness  and  round- 
ness would  absorb  Varnish's  attention,  and  even  now  I  fondly 
fancied  I  might  head  it  back  to  them.  "  They  were  awfully  easy 
to  do,"  I  said.  "  I  only  did  them  because  they  were  there." 

"Silly  Jackey!"  said  Gracey.  "As  if  you  could  have  had  a 
better  reason!  Mr.  Ruskin  says  so."  Since  those  days,  the  name 
of  Ruskin,  at  that  date  I  think  still  an  object  of  literary  ferocity 
to  standard  Art  critics,  has  been  successively  that  of  an  Apostle 
whose  sayings  it  was  blasphemy  to  contradict,  of  a  fogey  in  a 
niche  in  the  Temple  of  Orthodoxy,  and  of  a  successful  candidate 
for  a  more  commodious  one  in  that  of  Oblivion. 

"  Slocum  says  Mr.  Ruskin's  an  ass,"  said  I,  briefly.  And  the 
subject  dropped.  Gracey  said  she  should  buy  a  frame  and  glass 
for  my  Globe,  and  it  should  hang  in  Varnish's  room — the  reserve. 
Varnish  treated  the  prospect  of  this  as  a  lot  quite  beyond  human 
deserts. 

I  believe  after  this  I  " did "  a  foot  at  Slocum's,  and  then  a  hand; 
only  I  think  the  hand's  wall-hook  came  out  and  let  it  down  on  the 
ground,  smashing  it  and  stopping  my  appreciation  of  its  knuckles. 
In  consequence  of  this  mishap,  I  rose  prematurely  to  the  level  of 
the  Young  Antinous,  who  was  accounted  easy,  having  no  arms 
or  legs.  Strictly  speaking,  I  ought  to  have  tackled  Jupiter  Olym- 
pus, who  is  only  a  head;  but  then  his  magnificent  coiffure  defies 
the  draughtsman,  unless  he  'umbugs  it.  This  expression  I  borrow 
from  a  fellow-student  to  whom  I  am  also  indebted  for  one  or  two 
phrases  which  I  fancy  have  crept  into  this  text.  He  told  me  his 
name  without  its  initial,  and  I  was  led  to  believe  that  T  should 
be  safe  in  omitting  it,  as  I  presumed  he  knew.  So  I  was  puzzled 
when  he  said: — "You're  pokin'  your  fun  at  me,  calling  me  Hop- 
kins!" I  came  in  time  to  understand  that  a  definite  effort  on  his 
part  to  omit  an  aspirate  always  led  to  the  production  of  one  rather 
like  a  gunshot.  Thus  in  describing  to  me  his  grandfather,  who  had 


244  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

written  a  treatise,  he  stated  that  he  was  known — to  some  Theologi- 
cal world  I  presume — as  Horthodox  'Opkins.  He  had  a  maternal 
aunt  who  was  born  without  legs,  but  could  make  elder  wine.  1  am 
giving  his  words  as  I  remember  them.  He  was  pursooin'  the  Fine 
Arts  on  his  own  'ook,  because  his  family  disapproved  of  them. 

I  became  acquainted  with  him  because  he  lent  me  his  plumb-bob, 
mine  having  vanished  through  a  curly  hole  in  the  box  I  sat  upon, 
through  losing  touch  with  its  string.  He  informed  me  that  I 
might  shake  that  box  till  my  'art  broke,  without  getting  of  it — 
the  plump-bob — out;  whereas  if  I  had  a  little  patience,  and  giv' 
up  thinkin'  about  it,  it  would  come  out  easy,  of  its  own  accord. 
Which  proved  to  be  the  case  in  the  end,  though  I  should  have 
wished  it  might  have  happened  sooner,  as  the  Young  Antinous  wns 
entirely  fostered  on  my  neighbour's  plumb-bob,  and  he  and  I  always 
wanted  it  at  the  same  time.  Hopkins  told  me  further  concerning 
plumb-bobs  and  their  inherent  vices,  that  they  always  did  get 
inside  of  your  box,  do  what  you  would,  and  that  you  had  to  look 
uncommon  sharp  to  see  that  no  one  else  got  'old  of  them  when  they 
emerged  again  into  the  light  of  Heaven.  It  appeared  that  these 
boxes  resembled  hens;  and  were,  like  them,  prone  to  lay  in  un- 
expected places,  but  without  the  paans  of  triumph  that  announce 
the  advent  of  an  egg  to  the  Universe.  So  you  had  to  look  uncom- 
mon sharp! 

If  any  one  unaccustomed  to  art-culture  as  it  existed  in  the 
fifties  were  to  read  this,  he  might  ask  what  the  plumb-bobs  were 
for.  I  should  reply,  if  I  were  within  hearing,  that  they  were  to 
assist  the  artistic  eye  in  its  determination  of  what  was  underneath 
what.  My  recollection  of  the  "  Antique  School  "  at  Slocum's  is  as 
of  a  room  full  of  aspirants,  suspending  plumb-bobs  between  their 
eyesight  and  the  model  they  were  drawing,  to  determine  the  posi- 
tion of  points  above  or  below  others.  They  might,  but  for  the 
absence  of  rods,  have  been  fishermen,  looked  at  from  the  point 
of  view  of  those  who,  like  myself,  regard  the  careful  watching  of  a 
line  suspended  in  water,  without  result,  as  fishing.  A  shrewder 
effort  of  memory  brings  back  sporadic  examples  of  what  wo  called 
measurement;  to  wit,  the  checking  of  proportionate  length-;  on  a 
porte-crayon  held  at  any  convenient  distance.  The  variation  in  this 
distance  always  struck  me  as  fatal  to  accuracy.  It  was,  however, 
regarded  as  Training,  at  my  school,  in  the  fifties. 

There  was  so  much  flat  shadderin'-up  in  the  Young  Antinous — 
so  said  Mr.  Hopkins — that  he  '*  took  "  six  weeks.  V\7hat  could  you 
expect  when  the  largest  possible  surface  had  to  be  "gone  over" 
with  the  smallest  possible  point.  That  sounds  like  Political 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  245 

Economy,  but  it  isn't.  Six  irredeemable  weeks  of  my  life  did  I 
spend,  filling  up  any  little  white  spots  I  could  detect  in  the  rich 
black  velvet  surface  of  that  shadow,  I  think  my  pertinacity  may 
have  had  a  good  moral  effect,  as  no  doubt  was  the  case  with 
Sisyphus;  though  indeed  my  surroundings  may  have  been  more 
trying  than  his;  and,  therefore,  more  chastening.  As  nearly  as  I 
can  remember,  the  landscape  in  Tartarus  which  supplied  the  back- 
ground to  the  son  of  ^Eolus  was  desolate,  whereas  I  was  surrounded 
— I  need  not  scruple  to  write  it  now,  fifty-odd  years  later — by  a 
ribald  crew.  Every  profession  has  its  offscourings,  and  Art 
Schools  have,  or  had  in  those  days,  an  extraordinary  power  of  col- 
lecting and  detaining  the  scum  and  detritus  of — suppose  we  say — 
Artists'  Colourmens'  Customers !  We  can  hardly  say  Artists.  I  have 
asked  my  Self  whether  I  am  bound  to  write  a  word  about  xxxxx 
or  xxxx  or  xxxxxx,  and  the  answer  comes  back  that  I  may  do  as 
I  like.  I  am  not  sure — I  might  like  a  word  or  two  about  them. 
I  will,  as  Varnish  used  to  say,  "  leave  them  be  "  for  a  while,  and 
get  on  with  personal  memories. 

Apollo  Sauroctonos  followed  the  Young  Antinous,  and  then  I 
girded  up  my  loins  for  a  dash  at  the  gates  of  the  Academy  Schools. 
Laocoon  absorbed  the  whole  of  my  energies  for  six  weeks,  as  well 
as  six  shillings-worth  of  Italian  chalk,  and  the  undivided  atten- 
tion of  my  own  plumb-bob,  which  had  risen  from  the  tomb,  and 
been  provided  with  a  new  string.  I  suppose  my  drawing  was  a 
creditable  one,  or  it  would  not  have  landed  me  in  the  R.  A. 
schools,  as  it  afterwards  did.  But  if  it  was,  I  contend  that  my 
admission  proved  nothing  biit  that  a  youth  below  the  average 
capacity  for  drawing  can  convince  inattention  that  he  is  above  it, 
if  he  is  allowed  indefinite  time,  Italian  chalk  ad  libitum,  and  a 
plumb-bob  all  to  himself. 

My  own  belief  is  that  that  plumb-bob  was  my  Evil  Genius, 
and  that  my  Good  Genius  shoved  it  inside  of  that  box,  hoping — 
weakly,  I  must  confess — to  head  off  a  beloved  protege  from  a 
labyrinth  bristling  with  disasters  at  every  turn.  How  that  plumb- 
bob  must  have  chuckled  when  it  got  its  narrow  end  through  the 
zigzag  hole  again,  and  how  pleased  and  vertical  it  must  have  felt 
with  its  new  string!  A  droring  with  all  the  perpendic'lars  took 
wrong  could  never — said  Mr.  Hopkins,  whose  phraseology  hangs 
about  me, — meet  with  approval  from  The  Experienced  Eye,  and  I 
feel  he  was  right. 

Before,  however,  this  drawing  was  submitted  to  the  Experienced 
Eye,  it  had  to  be  shown,  with  other  evidences  of  ability,  to  Mrs. 
Walkinshaw's  Gromp;  no  one  else's  appearing  on  the  horizon. 


246  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Gromp  dwelt  in  Park  Village  East,  and  had  done  so  since  the 
romantic  mind  of  its  founder  carried  out  the  idea  of  fringing 
the  Regents  Canal  with  bowers  and  cots  and  chalets.  When  we 
were  admitted  to  his  Studio — my  soul  felt  hushed  with  awe  at 
being  inside  a  real  Studio ! — it  was  borne  in  upon  us  that  tho 
windows  had  not  been  open  since  that  date.  Nevertheless,  respira- 
tion appeared  possible  in  practice,  suggesting  that  Gromp  smoked 
a  mixture  which  yielded  oxygen.  A  damp  flavour  of  a  canal  may 
have  been  imagination  stimulated  by  knowledge  of  the  proximity 
of  one,  or  it  may  not.  But  the  gloom  was  real,  due  to  a  square 
yard  of  a  window  a  mile  square,  or  thereabouts,  admitting  light 
enough  to  make  it  visible.  And  the  Chaos  was  real;  the  unaccom- 
modating properties  sprawling  over  one  another  without  the  slight- 
est regard  for  Chronology;  Henrietta  Maria's  frock  crushed  by  a 
suit  of  armour;  the  rest  of  the  suit  riding  a  wooden  horse  with  its 
nose  chipped  off;  a  murdered  woman  in  a  sack,  or  what  seemed 
one,  till  the  spectator  detected  square  steel  heads  ingrafted  in  her 
joints — the  sort  whose  winch  is  never  to  be  found  when  wanted 
— and  thereby  knew  her  for  a  lay  figure.  And  folios  on  chairs — 
the  sort  that  wants  the  title-pages  or  the  colophons — whose  backs 
had  to  be  held  on  when  referred  to.  Which,  however,  one  felt 
instinctively,  never  happened  nowadays,  and  might  never  happen 
till  they  were  catalogued  for  auction,  and  picked  up  for  an  old 
song  by  their  next  neglecter.  Then  would  a  spasmodic  attempt 
be  made  to  prove  them  of  value,  followed  by  the  collapse  of  baffled 
sharpers. 

I  suppose  what  brings  Gromp's  mouldy  folios  to  my  mind  is 
that  when  my  father  and  I  were  shown  into  the  presence  of  their 
owner,  he,  after  giving  my  father  three  fingers  to  shake,  and 
myself  one,  enjoined  a  pause  with  a  deprecating  hand,  to  the  end 
that  seats  should  be  provided  for  his  company.  "  Stop  a  bit !  " 
said  he.  "  Don't  you  touch — because  of  the  dust."  He  decanted 
a  cat  off  a  stack  of  books  on  a  chair,  and  removed  them  cautiously 
onto  a  neighbouring  throne,  which  I  recognized  as  such  because 
we  had  one  at  Slocum's.  He  was  making  some  show — with  his 
pocket-handkerchief  I  think — of  beautifying  the  seat  of  this  chair 
for  service,  when  an  attempt  of  the  cat  to  go  to  bed  again  on  the 
top  book  caused  it  to  slide  off,  and  fall  with  a  dust-producing  thump 
on  the  floor.  The  painter  threw  up  his  hands  in  despair  as  a 
visible  cloud  rose  and  floated  into  a  ray  of  light  that  came  through 
some  chink  or  keyhole,  while  my  father  melted  away  into  con- 
trition for  the  disturbance  we  were  creating. 

"Wouldn't   matter   if   it  wasn't   for   the   dust!"   said   Gromp. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  247 

"  Seine  Studios  they  try  sweeping  up,  but  we  let  it  lie,  here.  No 
fault  of  yours,  you  know — only  the  cat!  She's  accustomed  to 
sleep  on  a  book,  and  prefers  Poliphilus.  We'll  come  in  the  middle 
before  the  picture,  if  you've  no  objection.  My  housekeeper  wipes 
over  a  place  on  the  floor  in  the  middle — like  an  island.  .  .  . 
There! — we  shall  do  now." 

My  father  had  the  cat's  chair,  on  the  island,  and  the  painter 
read  through  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  letter  of  introduction  twice;  once 
apparently  to  get  to  the  signature  and  find  out  who  wrote  it,  a 
second  time  to  master  its  contents.  This  done  he  said : — "  I 
thought  her  husband  had  a  g  in  his  name.  Walkingshaw.  I  sup- 
pose she  knows.  ...  Is  this  the  boy?"  He  broke  off  to  lay  a 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  if  there  were  several  other  boys  in  the 
room;  then  went  back  to  the  letter.  "Yes — she  was  Miss  Brabazon 
when  I  knew  her — Adelaide  Brabazon.  None  of  your  Mrs.  Walk- 
ingshaws!  I  suppose  she's  changed — eh?  .  .  .  Well,  she  must  be 
.  .  .  Eh — what — how  long  ago  ?  "  For  my  father  had  manifestly 
begun  to  frame  an  obvious  question.  The  old  man — I  believe  he 
was  over  eighty — began  thinking  of  dates: — "Ninety-eight — 
ninety-nine.  .  .  .  Yes — it  was  ninety-nine  when  I  painted  my 
Herodias.  There  she  hangs  in  the  dark  corner  there — you  can't 
see  her,  so  it's  no  use  looking.  Four,  five,  yes — it  must  have  been 
six  years  after  that  I  saw  Miss  Brabazon.  Saw  her  at  odd  times 
for  some  years  after  that!  Then  she  married.  Seen  nothing  of 
her  since!  .  .  .  She  wants  me  to  look  at  your  boy's  drawings 
and  say  what  I  think.  That's  the  compact.  He's  got  'em  in  a 
roll  there,  I  see.  Fetch  'em  out ! " 

I  did  so,  and  flattened  them  out  for  inspection,  but  it  took 
minutes  to  do.  My  father's  voice,  talking  to  the  R.  A.  mixes  in 
my  memory  with  the  obduracy  of  cartridge  paper  that  has  been 
rolled  up  to  the  diameter  of  a  gunbarrel.  It  says  to  that  veteran : — 
"  I'm  quite  in  earnest,  Mr.  Gromp.  I  shall  be  just  as  grateful  for 
a  decisive  condemnation  of  my  boy's  drawings  as  for  any  approval. 
What  I  want  is  to  have  the  question  settled  for  me  by  those  who 
know.  I  know  I  can  rely  on  a  conscientious  verdict,  from  you." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,  myself.  But  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,  in 
the  way  of  conscientiousness.  Just  this  once!  Because,  you  see, 
I've  no  interest  in  telling  any  fibs.  However,  if  I  can't  give  a 
verdict  it  will  be  conscientious  to  say  so — won't  it  now?" 

"  I  hope,"  said  my  father,  "  it's  a  plain  case,  one  way  or  the 
other.  Thank  you!"  I  looked  up  to  see  why  he  was  thanking, 
and  found  that  the  old  gentleman  had  offered  him  a  pinch  of 
snuff.  He  accepted  it,  and  I  felt  it  ratified  a  treaty  that  might  be 


248  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

fatal  to  my  aspirations.  Mr.  Gromp  tapped  the  snuff-box  and  said, 
"  Petitot,"  and  I  don't  think  my  father  understood.  It  drew  them 
nearer  together,  however,  for  its  owner  began  talking  confi- 
dentially. "  Mrs.  Walkingshaw,  or  I  should  say  Walkinshaw. 
Yes.  I  haven't  really  seen  her  since  she  was  a  stylish  young  lady 
of  twenty.  Saw  her  rather  frequently  then.  Gave  her  drawing 
lessons.  I  was — I  was — by  way  of  being  a  poor  artist,  in  those 
days.  And  when  she  married,  I  lost- sight  of  her.  Naturally!  " 

"Naturally!"  said  my  father,  and  I  didn't  see  why. 

"  She  wrote  a  line  to  say  expect  you.  Where  did  I  put  it?  ... 
Oh,  7  know — it's  in  this  drawer.  Yes,  I  knew  the  hand.  The 
hand  hasn't  changed  much.  .  .  .  But  you  say  she  has  changed 
a  great  deal ?  " 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  said  my  father.  "Because  how  can  I  know? 
But  I  think  you  may  take  it  as  the  case.  Why — her  daughter  has 
a  son  nearly  grown  up !  " 

The  old  man  stood  silent  for  a  space,  seeming  to  ratify  or  reject 
some  passing  recollection.  Then  he  said  thoughtfully,  half  to 
himself : — "  Yes.  She  didn't  look  much  like  a  grown-up  grandson, 
thenadays !  "  And  to  me : — "  Well — let's  see  the  drawings." 

I  have  tried  to  recall  all  I  could  of  this  passing  talk  of  old 
Gromp,  partly  because  it  seems  to  me  to  have  a  bearing  on  the 
strange  way  in  which  one  may  go  on  living  in  the  dark  about  one's 
fellow-creatures,  with  light  near  at  hand  for  whoso  chooses  sight; 
partly  because  it  was  the  cause  of  much  restless  speculation  after- 
wards as  to  which  was  telling  lies  about  a  matter-of-fact,  he  or 
Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  I  have  my  own  opinion  now,  but  at  that  time 
this  lady  was  above  ground,  and  I  have  always  felt  that  it  was 
one  of  the  most  difficult  things  in  the  world  to  face  a  real  liar,  and 
denounce  him  to  Heaven  and  Earth.  I  could  not  reconcile  my 
mind  to  the  existence  of  so  much  mendacity,  while  its  perpetrator 
was  actual  and  visible. 

We  saw  the  drawings.  I  spread  them  over  the  dustless  island 
before  the  eyes  of  my  Rhaclamanthus,  and  every  moment  felt 
smaller  and  smaller  ns  he  looked  at,  and  said  nothing  about,  each 
successive  sample.  Hope  stirred  feebly  in  my  mind  as  he  went 
back  to  my  early  Prometheus,  and  dwelt  upon  it  considerately.  I 
am  convinced  now  that  this  was  merely  his  tributo  to  Quality, 
backed  by  the  charm  which  careful  reconstruction  confers  on  a 
disintegrated  sample  of  incompetence.  Ask  the  Italian  artist  whose 
great  abilities  supply  a  steady  current  of  Anticliita  to  the  shops 
of  Florence  and  Rome,  how  he  attains  to  his  greatest  successes. 
He  will  tell  you  that  he  throws  his  whole  soul  into  the  production 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  249 

of  a  Lippi,  a  Ghirlandaio,  or  it  may  be  a  Cassone  by  a  pictor 
ignotus,  so  that  the  purchaser  may  start  fair  and  ascribe  it  to 
everybody;  and  that  then  when  his  work  is  perfect  he  honestly 
spoils  it,  and  has  it  carelessly  restored  by  a  Vandal.  This  is  why 
Time  has  always  spared — so  fortunately — the  best  bits  of  what  you 
have  picked  up  so  very  cheap,  considering.  The  forger — true 
Artist  to  the  core — cannot  bring  himself  to  be  absolutely  ruthless 
to  his  best  work. 

This  aspect  of  things  influences  Royal  Academicians  as  well  as 
mortals,  and  the  undeniable  Quality  of  Prometheus  for  the  mo- 
ment arrested  Gromp.  But  the  appreciation  of  his  position  only 
came  to  me  later.  "  I  have  made  you  a  promise,  Mr.  Pascoe," 
said  he,  when  inspection  time  seemed  near  a  natural  end.  "  I  have 
promised  to  tell  you  if  these  drawings  of  your  boy's  would  warrant 
you  in  refusing  to  give  him  an  Artist's  education.  Well — they 
won't.  I'll  go  as  far  as  that." 

I  saw  that  my  father  was  adjusting  his  cheekbones  with  his 
fingers,  as  he  used  to  do  when  perplexed.  "  I  almost  hoped  you 
were  going  to  say  they  would,"  said  he.  "  It  would  have  supplied 
me  with  a  foothold.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  point  is — will  they 
warrant  me  in  giving  him  an  Artist's  education  ? " 

Mr.  Gromp  said  "Hm-m-m!"  so  continuously  that  I  thought 
he  didn't  mean  to  stop.  He  did,  however,  and  apparently  found  the 
words  he  wanted.  For  he  seemed  contented  with: — "I  don't  think 
I  could  give  a  positive  negative  to  that."  I  felt  a  slight  revival  of 
Hope. 

My  father  said: — "But  more  no  than  yes?"  And  then  getting 
no  answer,  "  Or  more  yes  than  no?"  rather  as  a  reminder  that  an 
answer  was  expected,  than  as  catechism. 

"  I  couldn't  say,"  said  this  unsatisfactory  Rhadamanthus.  "  Try 
it  by  all  means  if  you  like.  I  should  be  better  able  to  say  in  an- 
other twelvemonth.  Send  him  to  the  Academy,  if  you  think  it 
worth  it.  I  couldn't  undertake  to  say  more  at  present."  I  was 
just  going  to  tie  up  my  roll  when  he  stopped  me  and  made  me 
undo  it  again.  Where,  he  asked,  was  the  drawing  I  had  done  for 
admission  to  the  Schools?"  I  produced  Laocoon,  and  unrolled 
him.  Rhadamaothus  took  a  good  look  all  round  at  him,  then 
said: — "Yes — I  thought  so!  It's  a  better  drawing  than  one  I 
sent  in  when  I  was  a  boy  a  month  or  so  younger  than  this  young 
chap,  I  should  say." 

"  And  that  one  got  you  in  ?  "  said  my  father,  not  unnaturally.  I 
thought  I  saw  daylight,  but  disappointment  was  in  store  for  me. 
For  this  inconsequent  Academician  answered: — "Well — no! 


250  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

It  didn't  get  me  in.  I  stayed  out — wasn't  a  student  at  any 
time." 

I  think  my  father  began  to  be  alive  to  the  fact  that  Rhada- 
manthus  was  rather  a  broken  reed  to  lean  upon.  "  We  mustn't 
take  up  your  time  any  more,  Mr.  Gromp,"  said  he,  "  it's  very  kind 
of  you  to  give  an  opinion,  and  I  shall  be  guided  by  it."  This  can 
only  have  been  civility. 

I  rolled  up  Laocoon  with  the  rest,  and  the  visit  to  the  great 
man  came  to  an  end.  I  think  he  was  one  of  the  most  advanced 
adepts  in  the  Art  of  Saying  Nothing  that  I  ever  came  across. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE  STORY 

As  time  went  on  Helen's  life  as  Mistress  of  The  Retreat  took 
on  a  rather  monotonous  cast.  The  novelty  of  her  position  wore 
off,  and  she  recognized  more  plainly  the  inevitable  limitations 
attendant  on  her  social  career.  Roberta's  marriage  was  an  im- 
mense relief  to  her,  she  felt  safer  now  that  she  was  out  of  the 
house.  Ellen  with  her  flabby  nature  and  all-absorbing  interest 
in  Church  matters  was  not  to  be  feared,  and  since  her  sister  had 
left  home  she  had  become  quite  friendly  with  her  stepmother  in  a 
negative  sort  of  way;  besides  she  was  sure  to  marry  that  parson,  he 
was  always  dangling  after  her.  Varnish  she  knew  was  her  secret 
enemy,  but  as  no  uncomfortable  developments  occurred  in  that 
(juarter,  Helen  felt  she  might  consider  herself  safe. 

It  was  not  any  of  the  household  that  she  feared,  her  husband 
was  amiable  and  considerate,  convinced  that  he  had  done  the 
right  thing  by  his  family  and  himself  in  marrying  Helen,  and 
gifted  with  a  most  comfortably  unobservant  nature  strongly  tinc- 
tured with  optimism.  No,  as  far  as  he  went  all  was  well. 

Wliat  was  it  then  that  was  wrong?  Why  could  not  Helen 
Pascoe,  secure  in  her  surroundings,  and  able  to  indulge  at  will 
in  all  the  minor  diversions  and  dissipations  of  a  fairly  well-to-do 
professional  household,  why  could  she  not  be  content  and  still 
that  restless  longing  for  change  and  excitement  that  beset  her? 
Change  at  any  price  was  what  she  craved  for.  Something  to  break 
the  uniform  greyness  of  the  life  that  seemed  closing  her  in  on  all 
sides.  She  longed  for  the  sun  to  break  through  the  cloud  and  bring 
her  light  and  warmth  and  vitality.  But  her  sun,  the  centre  and 
mainspring  of  her  being,  her  sun  that  hid  behind  that  leaden  veil 
of  everyday  existence,  was  dark!  It  was  black!  Black  as  ink! 
And  Helen  Pascoe  restlessly  paced  the  embankment  one  chill 
November  evening,  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  escape  from  the  thing 
that  she  knew  to  be  herself. 

It  was  getting  late,  surely  it  was  time  to  go  home  now?  But 
still  Helen  continued  her  rapid  walking  to  and  fro! 

Oh,  it  was  that  print!  she  could  not  forget  it!  What  could  have 
possessed  Eustace  John,  with  his  newly  found  enthusiasm  for  the 

251 


£52  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

fine  arts,  to  bring  home  such  a  hideous  thing  and  expect  them 
all  to  admire  it! 

"  I  thought  peradventure  the  darkness  might  cover  me."  She 
had  it  always  before  her  eyes,  that  hunted  figure  hurrying  along 
the  deserted  road,  with  the  full  moon  emerging  from  behind  a 
dark  cloud,  and  lighting  up  vividly  the  bloodstained  fugitive.  Oh, 
it  was  horrible,  and  Helen  Pascoe  leaned  over  the  parapet  and  gazed 
down  at  the  cold  dark  river  beneath  her.  Peace  and  rest,  could 
she  find  them  there?  The  water  seemed  calling  to  her!  She  had 
only  just  to  climb  the  parapet  and  plunge  in,  and  end  it  all!  The 
struggle  of  drowning  would  soon  be  over,  then  rest  and  oblivion 
for  ever!  .  .  . 

She  glanced  hurriedly  round,  it  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  and 
the  embankment  was  deserted.  Now  was  the  moment!  She  must 
be  quick  or  some  one  might  come! 

"  Forth  John's  soul  flared  into  the  dark." 

What  made  those  lines  of  Browning's  suddenly  ring  in  her  ears 
and  unnerve  her?  Whence  came  the  flash  of  startled  insight  that 
made  her  hug  the  warm  covering  of  the  flesh  that  hid  her  dark  soul, 
and  tear  back  with  frantic  haste  to  the  shelter  of  the  home  she  had 
been  on  the  brink  of  leaving  for  ever. 

"  My  love,  how  late  you  are,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pascoe  as  he  opened 
the  street-door  himself  to  let  her  in.  "  I  was  getting  quite  anxious 
about  you." 

"  Aunt  Helen,  Cook  is  afraid  the  fish  will  be  overboiled,"  called 
Gracey,  looking  over  the  bannister  rail. 

"  I  shan't  bo  a  minute  getting  my  things  off,  I  mistook  the 
time,"  explained  Helen,  as  she  ran  upstairs. 

The  dining-room  door  stood  open,  and  as  she  passed  it  she  caught 
sight  of  the  cheerful  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  the  table  taste- 
fully laid  for  their  evening  meal.  Oh,  she  was  glad  to  be  back. 
What  an  escape  she  had  had!  That  awful  cold  dark  river!  and 
Helen  shuddered.  She  must  forget  it  all!  cast  it  from  her  like 
some  frightful  dream.  Yes,  but  that  grave  at  Highgate,  could  she 
forget  that? 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  WAS  put  through  my  paces  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Club, 
which  had  retained  its  character,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  its 
members  were  growing  up,  better  than  Institutions  of  its  class 
usually  do.  This  meeting  followed  the  visit  to  Gromp,  which  took 
place  one  Sunday  morning,  on  the  subsequent  Saturday.  Cooky 
always  came  to  dinner  on  Saturday,  risking  his  soul  when  the 
days  were  long  and  the  dinner-bell  rang  before  sunset. 

I  cannot  fix  the  time  of  year  at  which  this  happened,  to  my 
satisfaction.  But  Cooky's  soul  must  have  been  safe,  for  though 
he  came  early  to  allow  of  the  Club  meeting,  the  waning  light  made 
it  hard  to  see  some  features  of  my  Laocoon,  which  was  adduced  in 
evidence,  or  illustration,  of  the  only  point  in  my  favour  that  could 
be  extracted  from  the  indecision  of  Rhadamanthus. 

"  So  he  said  the  details  were  better,  little  Buttons — was  that 
his  game?  "  Thus  Cooky,  looking  at  Laocoon,  with  Gracey  looking 
over  his  shoulder. 

.     "  No,  he  didn't.      He  said  the  deetails  were  better.      In  Art, 
they're  deetails." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  much  to  go  by,  but  it's  something.  You've 
done  something  better  than  a  Royal  Academician,  little  Buttons!  " 
I  felt  set  up.  "But  did  he  say  he  was  older  or  younger?" 

I  had  to  climb  down.    "  He  said  he  was  younger — a  lot !  " 

"Oh,  blow!"  said  Cooky.  "What  a  chap  he  is  for  taking  his 
own  edge  off!  First  of  all  your  Governor  asks  him  if  these  draw- 
ings would  warrant  his  giving  you  an  Artist's  education,  and  he 
says  he  can't  give  a  positive  negative.  Then  your  Governor  asks 
if  they  would  warrant  him  in  refusing  it,  and  he  says  he  won't 
go  as  far  as  that.  Then  he  says  he  sent  in  a  worse  drawing  than 
this  to  the  Academy  when  he  was  younger  than  you,  and  didn't 
get  in!  He's  no  good,  little  Buttons!  " 

"  But,  Monty,"  said  the  female  member  of  the  Club,  ruefully* 
"  He  did  say  he  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  that." 

"As   far  as   what?" 

"  As  far  as — what  you  said  just  now.    And  he  did  say  he  couldn't 

253 


254  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

give  a  positive  negative  to  ...  to  the  other  way  round.  I 
think  if  you  add  those  two  up,  it  makes  a  great  deal." 

In  the  Club,  we  were  never  pedantic.  Cooky  accepted  Gracey's 
speech  as  intelligible,  because  its  meaning  was  clear — not  a  bad 
reason.  "Your  sister  thinks  you've  got  a  verdict,  Buttons,", said 
he. 

"Well— hasn't  he,  Monty?" 

"  If  you  think  so,  Gracey,  I'll  stick  up  for  you." 

"But  don't  you  agree  that  I'm  'right?" 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you  are  or  not.    I'm  on  your  side." 

"  But  I  do  care  whether  you  don't  care  whether  I  am  or  not. 
No — do  say  what  you  really  think!  "  Gracey  spoke  coaxingly,  and 
knew  that  Cooky's  reply  would  come  from  his  inner  soul. 

It  came.  "All  right,  Gracey!"  said  he.  "I  won't  make  any 
compliments.  But  I  shall  stick  up  for  your  side,  on  principle, 
when  I'm  asked."  He  then  gave  what  seems  to  me  now  a  perfectly 
reasonable  view  on  the  merits  of  my  case.  He  had  no  faith  in  my 
Art,  that  was  clear.  But  he  knew  nothing  about  Art — that  was  not 
so  clear.  The  judgment  of  Rhadamanthus  he  condemned  as  too 
indecisive  and  ambiguous  to  have  any  working  value.  But  he, 
Cooky  Moss,  was  prepared  to  put  aside  conscience  and  veracity, 
and  espouse  any  faith  soever,  on  any  subject,  to  meet  the  views  of 
the  lady-member  of  the  Club. 

Gracey  did  not  seem  to  have  any  scruples  about  accepting 
chivalrous  service  on  the  terms  stated.  "  Now  mind  you  do!  "  was 
her  injunction  to  Monty  when  he  finished  up  with : — "  I  shall  say 
so  to  your  Governor  if  he  asks  me." 

I  wish  now  that  the  deliberations  of  the  Club  had  had  a  more 
vitally  judicial  character.  I  see  now  that  its  decisions  were  those 
of  Love,  not  Judgment;  of  Gracey's  love  for  her  brother  and  his 
friend's  love  for  her.  I  suppose  that,  in  a  sense,  I  knew  of  the 
existence  of  the  latter,  but  a  fatal  immaturity  clouded  my  mind, 
and  I  took  everything  as  a  matter-of-course  without  thought  of 
the  future.  I  believe  that  if  any  one  had  then  raised  discussion 
about  the  nature  of  these  two  young  people's  sentiments,  I  should 
have  contributed  to  it  the  valuable  view  that  it  wasn't  Lover's  Rot, 
but  that  they  really  were  awfully  fond  of  one  another,  and  no 
humbug.  Why  I  should  take  this  drastic  view  of  the  tender 
passion  I  have  no  idea.  I  have  to  accept  facts  as  they  stand. 

My  Governor  did  ask  for  Cooky's  views  on  the  subject,  that  eve- 
ning. A  kind  of  symposium  on  the  merits  of  the  case  ensued.  For 
not  only  was  the  whole  family  there,  my  sister  Roberta  having 
'driven  her  husband  over  from  Petersham,  but  Mrs.  Walkinshaw 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  255 

had  also  graced  our  board,  with  two  distinct  purposes;  one  to  hear 
what  Gromp  thought,  the  other  to  meet  again  that  charming 
Roberta,  her  Joan  of  Arc,  and  her  delightfully  intelligent  husband. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  she  took  up  a  position  about  this  couple,  that 
she  had  been  present  at  the  first  development  of  their  early  love, 
and  had  watched  its  growth  and  fostered  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
also  that  Joan  of  Arc's  delightfully  intelligent  husband  had  on 
some  previous  occasion  incurred  the  displeasure  of  Joan  by  acced- 
ing too  readily  to  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  assumption.  For  I  distinctly 
heard  Roberta  say  to  him : — "  If  you  are  going  to  lie  down  this 
time  and  allow  that  woman  to  foozle  over  us,  do!  But  7  won't 
stand  it.  Joan  of  Arc,  indeed ! "  To  which  he  answered,  weakly : — 
"  What's  a  feller  to  do  against  a  woman  like  that,  Ro?"  And  she 
replied  tartly : — "  Very  well,  go  your  own  way.  Now  you  know !  " 
I  fancy  also  that  she  said : — "  I'll  Joan  of  Arc  her,  if  she  tries  it 
on  me !  "  When  the  excellent  lady,  shortly  after,  swam  into  the 
room  with  outstretched  arms,  as  though  to  enfold  Society  in  her 
embrace,  if  its  sex  permitted  it,  and  exclaimed: — "Well — this  is 
delightful !  "  I  fully  expected  to  see  her  Joan  of  Arked — I  have 
to  write  it  that  way — somehow  or  other.  Perhaps  she  was.  All  I 
noticed  was  that  she  failed  to  get  home  on  Roberta,  who  used  her 
right  cleverly,  with  the  expression  on  her  face  that  one  ascribes 
to  Polly  Hopkins,  when  Mr.  Tomkins  called  on  her.  An  attempt 
at  pleasantry  fell  through,  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  having  expanded  into 
empressement,  voluminously,  and  opened  her  eyes  as  far  as  they 
would  go,  to  say: — "We — are — the  Graysons!  Think  of  that!" 
But  she  had  given  herself  away.  For  my  sister  said  briefly,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  and  awaited  an  explanation,  which  was  not  so 
easy  to  formulate  at  a  short  notice.  It  is  of  course  possible 
that  this  was  Joan  of  Arking,  or  akin  to  it. 

I  certainly  thought  Roberta  victorious  on  points,  in  these  pre- 
liminary rounds.  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  kept  away,  avoiding  clutches, 
and  showing  some  clever  tactics.  She  escaped  the  explanation,  just 
referred  to,  by  rushing  into  my  stepmother,  and  absorbing  her 
apologies,  for  being  late  into  her  outskirts.  She  always  seemed, 
when  in  evening  warpaint,  to  teem  with  clouds  of  a  gauzy  nature, 
and  to  be  saturated  with  eau-de-Cologne.  I  knew  what  Jemima 
was  saying  to  her,  on  a  sofa  afar  to  which  she  had  been  success- 
fully carried  off  for  confidences,  while  we  awaited  my  father's  ap- 
pearance :  dinner  was  always  announced  first.  She  was  saying  she 
could  not  but  rejoice,  for  the  dear  boy's  sake — videlicet  mine — 
that  Mr.  Gromp,  who  seemed  a  charming  old  gentleman,  had  been 
able  to  speak  so  positively  as  to  my  unfitness  for  an  Artist's  career. 


256  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

She  was  dwelling  on  the  social  advantages  I  might  have  sacrificed 
by  adopting  it.  But  she  feared  it  would  be  a  bitter  disappointment 
for  the  dear  boy.  I  must  have  heard  something  to  this  effect  to 
carry  into  the  dining-room  an  impression  I  distinctly  remember, 
that  Gromp  had  written  to  my  father,  unknown  to  me,  a  sup- 
plementary judgment  on  my  work,  condemning  it. 

It  was,  however,  merely  an  innocent  attempt  on  Jemima's 
part  to  get  a  flavour  of  prejudgment  of  the  case  into  the  moral 
atmosphere.  If  she  had  succeeded,  it  may  be  I  should  have  been 
headed  off  from  the  pursuit  of  Art,  and  become,  somehow,  a 
useful  member  of  Society. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  Symposium  came  about. 
My  father  came  in  after  his  pipe,  accompanied  by  my  brother- 
in-law,  Anderson,  and  Mr.  Stowe,  the  auctioneer,  our  other  guest. 
They  had  gone  into  the  library  to  smoke,  while  Cooky  and  I 
slipped  away  to  a  late  club-meeting.  I  suppose  I  had  been  under 
consideration  in  the  library  because  my  father  said : — u  Here  are 
the  drawings — some  of  them " — on  entering  the  drawing-room, 
much  as  though  ha  were  carrying  on  a  previous  conversation. 
The  drawings  had  been  produced  to  be  shown  to  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw,  amid  shrieks  of  congratulation  to  their  author  on  that 
lady's  part. 

"  Just  come  and  take  a  look  at  them,  Scritchey,"  said  my 
father,  addressing  Mr.  Stowe.  4<  You're  an  Art  Auctioneer,  and 
ought  to  know  something  about  Art." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Stowe.  They  sat  together  at  one  end  of 
the  room.  I  was  halfway  between  them  and  Mrs.  Walkinshaw, 
beside  my  stepmother  on  the  sofa,  at  the  other.  So  I  heard  both. 

"  Now,  we  shall  hear !  "  gave  out  Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Pascoe,  where  did  you  get  your  Mr. " 

"  His  name's  Stowe,"  said  Jemima,  impassively.  Mr.  Stowe 
was  not  a  favourite  with  her — she  thought  him  not  quite.  "  What 
about  him?" 

"  He  seems  to  m«  my  beau  ideal  of  ....  of  the  Art 
Thinker " 

I  fancy  Jemima  saw  the  necessity  of  stopping  this.  "  He's 
Stacpoole's,  you  know — that's  all !  "  said  she,  so  low  that  I  barely 
caught  the  words. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  roice  changed.  "  Oh-h,  ye'es !  Stacpoole's 
...  let  ...  me  .  .  .  see — (Stacpoole's."  She  spoke  as  if  she  was 
puzzled  by  the  first  syllable,  and  would  rather  he  should  have  been 
Welshpool's  or  Hartlepool's. 

u  Yes — auction  people — Old  Masters — articles  of  vertu  .  .  .  that 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  257 

sort  of  thing!"  Jemima  spoke  as  one  who  said — come  down  far 
enough  and  you  shall  see. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  dried  up  very  much,  but  felt  about  for  pallia- 
tives. "  Oh,  but  old  Masters!  Dear  Mrs.  Pascoe,  the  sums  spoken 
of  are  frequently  fabulous!  Those  who  handle  them  must  have 
some  knowledge  of  Art." 

Jemima  detached  herself  from  auctioneers,  saying  as  she  got 
away  to  the  horizon : — "  Very  likely.  We  shall  see." 

However  fabulous  were  the  sums  that  Stacpoole's  handled,  one 
of  the  partners  of  that  firm  continued  to  profess  ignorance  of 
the  Fine  Arts.  I  inferred  this  from  overhearing  my  father's 
words  to  him  at  this  moment,  as  he  raised  his  voice  to  say: — 
"  It  doesn't  matter  how  little  you  know  about  Art  yourself, 
Scritchey.  That's  not  the  point.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  if  it 
were  your  boy,  not  mine,  what  should  you  do?" 

Mr.  Stowe  seemed  very  uncertain.  Indeed,  he  was  apparently 
trying  for  a  way  out.  "  Which  of  'em  do  you  mean  ? "  said  he. 
"  I've  got  such  a  lot." 

"  Any  one.     One  about  the  same  age." 

"  Well — you  see — having  such  a  lot,  I'm  only  too  glad  to  let 
'em  have  their  own  way.  I  don't  believe  there  are  eight  pro- 
fessions— are  there?"  Some  reckoning  ended  in  the  conclusion 
that  there  might  be,  if  you  counted  the  Church.  "  I  couldn't  stand 
that,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Stowe.  "  He'd  want  to  read  prayers, 
and  I  should  want  him  to  behave  like  a  reasonable  Christian.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,  Strap!  " 

"  I  know.  Only  it  doesn't  arise  from  the  question  on  the  paper. 
Keep  to  the  point.  If  one  of  your  boys  thought  he  could  do 
Art,  would  you  let  him  ?  " 

"Let  him  be  an  Artist?  Why — certainly! — if  he  showed  abil- 
ity. If  people  bought  his  pictures,  why  shouldn't  he  make  his 
living  that  way?" 

"  That  brings  us  to  the  point.  Do  you  see  any  reason,  from 
these  drawings,  to  suppose  that  any  one  will  ever  want  to  buy 
my  boy's  pictures?" 

"  That  can  only  be  settled  by  trying  the  experiment.  Teach 
him  to  paint  pictures  and  see  if  any  one  buys  them.  He  can  be 
taught  in  three  or  four  years,  if  he's  tractable.  I  fancy — but  I 
tell  you  I  don't  know — that  there's  nothing  in  these  drawings  to 
show  that  he  won't  be  able  to  paint  pictures.  Rather  t'other 
way,  I  should  say.  When  they  are  painted,  we  shall  soon  see  if 
any  one  wants  them." 

"  I  am  completely  puzzled,"  said  my  father.     And,  indeed,  he 


258  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

looked  so.  "Do  you  mean  to  say,  Scritchey,"  he  continued  after 
a  moment,  "  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  absolutely  good 
or  bad  picture — that  it  is  entirely  a  matter  of  fashion  ? " 

"  Selling  is  entirely  a  matter  of  fashion.  Pictures  are  good 
pictures  that  sell.  Bad  pictures  are  pictures  that  don't.  There 
may  be  people  that  know  good  pictures  from  bad,  but  all  I  can 
say  is  they  keep  outside  auction-rooms." 

"  Then  Master  Jackey  may  still  have  a  chance,  however  badly 
he  paints? " 

"  Rather.  You  come  to  the  Mart  some  day  when  a  big  sale's 
on,  and  see  if  what  I  say  isn't  true." 

"  But  I  shan't  know  good  from  bad  myself." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  you  will !     Everybody  does." 

"Doesn't  that  contradict  what  you  said  before?" 

"  Of  course  it  does,  flatly.  But  what  I  said  before  didn't  mean 
that  nobody  knew  good  from  bad,  but  that  nobody  could  prove 
anything  either  way.  Everybody  knows,  but  then,  unless  he  praises 
what  other  people  think  rubbish,  nobody  will  credit  him  with  a 
higher  form  of  knowledge  than  his  own,  and  that's  the  sort  of 
fame  bounce  grows  fat  upon.  Believe  me,  dear  Strap,  that  there 
is  a  factor  in  Art  of  more  importance  than  correct  drawing  or 
dignified  composition,  or  striking  chiaroscuro  or  vigorous  impasto, 

and  that  is "  Mr.  Stowe  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whisper  on  his 

last  word,  "  Humbug ! "  I  knew  what  the  word  was,  though  I 
didn't  hear  the  whole  of  it. 

I  have  asked  my  Self  how  much  of  the  above  conversation  I 
really  recollect,  and  the  reply  has  been — almost  none!  How  then, 
is  it  that  I  am  so  firmly  convinced  that  the  conversation,  or 
something  very  near  it,  took  place?  I  can't  account  for  my 
conviction;  but  having  it,  I  can  resubstantiate  its  spirit  to  my 
own  satisfaction,  which  is  the  only  one  I  am  bound  to  consider. 
One  thing  is  in  my  Memory's  favour — that  she  resents  admission 
to  her  report  of  what  I  know  belongs  to  a  later  date.  As  for 
instance,  her  repetition  to  me  of  Mr.  Stowe's  enumeration  of  the 
bull's-eye,  so  to  speak,  in  Art's  targets,  which  belonged  to  its 
time,  an  age  anterior  to  "  Values,"  and  still  more  so  to  Impres- 
sionism, Post-Impressionism,  and  Futurism.  The  late  fifties  were 
still  under  the  spell  of  Pastism,  and  my  own  feeling  is — but  I 
mention  it  with  diffidence — that  they  were  kept  steady  by  it.  I 
must,  however,  resist  the  temptations  of  a  fascinating  subject,  the 
Correlation  of  Art  and  Imposture,  and  get  back  to  The  Retreat, 
in  what  must  have  been  the  spring  of  a  very  late  fifty. 

The  remaining  incidents  of  that  evening,  that  tempt  Memory 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  259 

to  turn  them  over  with  her  spade,  on  the  chance  of  a  find,  flicker 
to  and  fro  in  her  phantasmagoria,  as  she  presents  them  to  me,  at 
random.  My  sister  Roberta  yawns  behind  her  hand,  frequently; 
latterly  like  a  gulf  or  chasm  at  one's  feet,  in  Poetry.  She  sits  at 
the  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  the  big  oil  lamp 
on  it,  looking  at  the  last  Punch.  She  is  waiting  out  the  evening 
and  wants  to  get  home.  Why  she  need  keep  so  savage  with 
Jemima  is  a  thing  that  puzzles  me.  Ellen  has  forgiven,  superfi- 
cially at  least.  Varnish  certainly  has  not,  but  then — I  don't  be- 
lieve my  dear  old  nurse  ever  did  forgive  the  Sly  Cat.  Every 
one  has  some  fault,  and  I  suppose  this  was  Varnish's.  As  my 
mind  goes  back  to  the  image  of  Roberta  that  evening,  it  sees 
those  dark,  handsome  eyes  of  hers  fluctuate  between  Punch  and 
my  stepmother,  still  devoting  herself  to  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  as 
the  guest  par  excellence.  I  speculate  a  little,  idly,  on  how  Bert 
can  know  when  Jemima  is  looking  at  her,  so  as  always  to  avoid 
meeting  her  eyes.  She  does  know,  somehow,  and  becomes  absorbed 
in  Punch  at  any  critical  moment.  Her  husband  is  one  of  a  talka- 
tive group,  at  the  piano.  He  appears  to  be  enjoying  his  visit,  and 
is  in  possession  of  the  rostrum,  or  music-school.  He  can  sing 
nigger  songs,  but  his  choice  of  one  rouses  his  wife  to  protest. 
She  is  sick  and  tired  of  that  dreary  "  Old  Folks  at  Home,"  and  it 
is  suppressed.  I  had  a  sneaking  liking  for  that  family  and  was 
sorry. 

This  is  all  fifty-five  years  ago.  The  last  time  I  set  foot  out  of 
doors  I  heard  a  small  boy  singing  that  air,  and  it  brought  back 
my  early  days  to  me,  as  nothing  can  but  a  song — except,  indeed, 
a  smell,  which  beats  all  other  resurrections  hollow.  I  thought  to 
myself  that  he  must  needs  be  the  composer's  grandson.  But  no! 
For,  an  hour  after,  in  another  place,  behold  a  totally  different 
small  boy,  addressing  an  imaginary  audience  of  Darkeys,  and 
longing  for  the  Suwannee  River.  The  song  had  come  to  life  again, 
after  half  a  century  of  oblivion,  and  I  was  still  here — still  here! — 
to  hear  it. 

The  memory  of  Anderson  Grayper's  suppression  by  his  wife 
when  he  played  a  few  chords  of  the  air,  and  stopped  for  instruc- 
tions what  else  he  should  sing,  is  stronger  in  my  mind  now  than 
that  of  those  small  Chelsea  interpreters  of  it,  whose  parents  I 
suppose  were  then  unborn.  I  suspect  that  the  mind  of  old  age, 
thrown  back  on  itself,  revives  all  the  first  clean  press-work  of 
experience,  struck  off  before  the  sheets  were  soiled.  The  recalling 
of  this  incident  makes  me  recollect  that  he  sang  an  alternative. 
a  song  about  rhinoceroses,  curious  beasts  who  got  theirselves  all 


260  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

over  mud  and  revelled  in  morasses.  The  sublime  condescension 
of  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  towards  these  trivial  and  puerile  diversions 
was  a  sight  to  be  seen  and  remembered. 

J  wish  some  such  suggestive  power  would  work  towards  the 
explanation  of  an  incident  that  happened  an  hour  later,  after 
Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  carriage  had  borne  her  away  to  Ladbroke 
Square,  Bayswater.  It  arose  from  my  father  saying  to  Cooky: — 
"  I  haven't  heard  you  yet,  Nebuchadnezzar,  on  the  subject  of  the 
drawings.  Come  along  into  the  library,  and  let's  hear  it.  Come 
along,  boys!  Come  along,  Anderson!"  I  knew  he  threw  my 
brother-in-law  in,  that  he  might  not  feel  out  in  the  cold.  The  effect 
was  that — as  Mr.  Stowe  had  departed  some  time  since — my  two 
elder  sisters  and  our  stepmother  were  left  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  For  Gracey  took  leave  to  follow  us,  and  no  one  said  her  nay, 
Bert  called  out  impatiently  after  her  husband : — "  Don't  be  long, 
Dan.  Remember  it's  more  than  an  hour's  drive!  "  Dan — obviously 
a  perversion  of  his  first  name — gave  rather  a  grudging  assent,  and 
I  bore  my  collection  of  drawings  in,  and  laid  them  out  favourably 
for  inspection. 

I  don't  think  my  father  was  the  least  aware  that  the  witness 
whose  testimony  he  was  seeking  was  influenced  by  a  member  of  the 
public  who  had  got  into  the  Court.  I  don't  think  he  knew — in- 
deed, I  did  not  know  myself — the  extent  of  that  influence,  or  its 
possibilities.  My  father  never  saw  anything.  He  was  aware  that 
it  was  very  nice  that  Gracey  and  Nebuchadnezzar  were  such 
good  friends.  But  he  thought  it  possible  that  two  reasonable 
young  persons,  who  knew  that  Hymen  was  out  of  the  question, 
would  keep  Cupid  out  of  the  answer.  I  was  as  bad  as  he.  But 
then  I  had  the  excuse  of  youth  and  inexperience. 

I  never  knew  Cooky  to  do  anything^  by  halves.  He  had  under- 
taken to  misrepresent  facts  on  my  behalf,  and  he  kept  his  prom- 
ise honourably.  Gracey  got  behind  my  father's  chair  to  keep  her 
eye  on  her  advocate  and  encourage  him  if  he  wavered;  she  being, 
as  it  were,  in  the  position  of  the  solicitor  in  charge  of  the  case. 
But  no  supervision  was  necessary.  I  saw  a  trace  of  impatience  in 
the  solicitor's  blue  eye  when  her  counsel  opened  with  a  disclaimer 
of  any  knowledge  of  the  Fine  Arts.  But  it  disappeared  when  the 
spurious  and  insincere  character  of  this  aggressive  ebullition  of 
modesty  became  manifest. 

My  father  treated  it  as  it  deserved.  "Don't  know  anything 
about  the  Fine  Arts,  don't  we?"  said  he.  "What's  that  got  to 
do  with  the  matter?  We  should  never  have  any  opinions  at  all, 
if  we  waited  to  know  about  things  before  we  formed  them.  Be- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  261 

sides,  if  we  know  things  our  opinions  get  biassed.  I  want  an  un- 
biassed opinion." 

Cooky's  opinion,  which  derived  great  weight  from  his  large  dark 
eyes  and  massive  cheek  bones,  was  sound  according  to  my  father's 
view,  in  so  far  as  that  it  was  uninfluenced  by  any  knowledge  of 
the  subject.  But  he  had  been  entrusted  with  a  brief  by  my  solici- 
tor and  was  bound  to  make  the  best  of  the  case,  having  once 
accepted  it.  He  only  knew,  he  said,  that  none  of  the  other  chaps 
could  do  that  sort  of  drawings.  Some  of  them  could  copy,  but 
that  wasn't  Art.  Mr.  Gromp  was  an  awful  swell,  of  course;  but 
the  more  awful  a  swell  was,  the  more  cautious  would  be  his  judg- 
ments. Also,  it  was  to  be  observed  that  this  caution  had  been 
shown  just  as  much  by  a  refusal  to  say  that  it  was  quite  impossible 
that  I  should  become  famous,  as  to  admit  that  it  was  possible 
that  I  should.  Such  scrupulous  impartiality  cut  both  ways.  And 
so  on.  The  counsel's  solicitor  looked  very  much  as  if  she  should 
employ  him  in  her  next  case,  and  said : — "  There  now,  Papa,  you 
see  what  Monty  thinks !  " 

I  suppose  it  was  because  my  father  felt  that  it  would  be  uncivil 
to  leave  his  son-in-law  out  in  the  cold  that  he  said: — "And  what 
do  you  think  about  it,  Anderson  ?  "  The  answer  began  : — "  Roberta 
thinks  .  .  .  . "  And  went  on  to  give  his  wife's  opinion  that  I 
was  constitutionally  and  intellectually  unfitted  for  the  practice  of 
painting,  and  that  the  lives  of  Artists  were  generally  disreputable. 
He  did  not  mention  his  own  opinion.  My  father  said : — '•'  And 
what  do  you  think  yourself?"  He,  therefore,  vacillated  as  one 
vacillates  who  has  no  views  of  one's  own,  and  is  afraid  to  advo- 
cate any  one  else's. 

He  was  still  engaged  in  expressing  uncertainty  when  Ellen  came 
in  from  the  drawing-room,  and  spoke  to  my  father  in  a  disturbed 
undertone,  so  that  I  did  not  hear  her  words. 

"Oh  ....  Yes!  ...  Well!  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  come!"  said  he, 
catching  the  last  words  of  her  communication  in  the  intervals 
of  his  reply  to  her  first.  "Pick  up  the  drawings  and  put  'em 
away,  Jackey ! "  I  thought  I  caught  the  sound  of  ruffled  speech 
in  the  drawing-room  in  spite  of  its  distance,  both  doors  being 
then  open,  but  I  don't  think  this  was  my  reason  for  carrying  the 
drawings  back  thither  to  replace  them  in  their  portfolio.  I  should 
have  done  that  in  any  case,  without  incentives  of  curiosity.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  cannot  remember  that  I  felt  any  vital  interest 
in  what  was  going  on.  I  was  too  selfishly  absorbed  in  my  own 
affairs.  I  heard,  "  Do  they  want*us?  "  from  Cooky,  and,  "Perhaps 
they  don't,"  from  Gracey.  They  remained.  My  brother-in-law 


262  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

hesitated  out  at  the   door  after  me,   and  wavered  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

I  entered  the  drawing-room  long  enough  after  my  father  to 
lose  what  he  first  said.  But  from  my  knowledge  of  him  I  sus- 
pected it  of  being: — "What's  the  rumpus?"  For  his  words  that 
followed  some  incomplete  reply  to  a  question  were : — u  Well — what 
is?"  I  made  for  my  portfolio — the  one  that  never  had  the  flat- 
fish in  it — and  attended  to  the  stowing  away  of  my  drawings.  I 
was  conscious  that  my  incoming  had  checked  two  answers;  one 
from  my  sister  and  one  from  my  stepmother.  My  perceptive- 
ness  went  the  length  of  hastening  operations,  and  I  got  my  works 
interned  in  the  pause  which  followed.  Then  L  looked  round. 

My  father  was  still  standing  near  the  door,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  Roberta.  As  I  turned  I  caught  vividly  the  image  of  her  that 
is  with  me  still,  the  flashing  anger  of  her  eyes,  and  the  white 
face  I  saw  on  the  day  of  my  father's  wedding,  but  this  time  with 
the  mass  of  rich  black  hair  too  securely  coiled  to  be  shaken  loose 
by  a  brusquerie  of  movement.  Her  eyes  were  .not  fixed  on  my 
father,  but  on  Jemima,  and  I  turned  to  look  at  her.  She  was  on 
the  sofa  where  she  had  sat  by  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  with  her  gaze 
directed  towards  her  stepdaughter,  and  a  look  in  her  face  that  was 
as  much  astonishment  or  terror  as  anger.  I  recall  her  image 
less  clearly  than  my  sister's,  but  then,  of  course,  I  saw  Jemima 
so  often  later.  As  I  picture  her  now,  as  seen  then,  there  is  a 
burning  red  spot  on  her  either  cheek,  that  my  mind  harmonizes 
idly  with  the  tint  of  her  pink  silk  dress.  She  moves  uneasily  and 
gives  me  the  idea  that  her  breath  comes  quick.  Ellen  was  there, 
too,  crying,  I  think;  but  I  did  not  notice  her.  Further,  I  was 
merely  aware  that  there  had  been  hostilities,  arrested  by  my 
father's  entry,  and  that  I  was,  on  the  whole  not  wanted.  A 
glance  from  him  gave  me  the  hint  to  go,  and  I  departed.  I  caught 
a  word  or  two  of  the  recrudescence  of  the  dispute  as  I  closed  the 
door. 

Anderson  Grayper  was  in  the  passage,  still  wavering.  I  thought 
he  looked  very  much  concerned,  and  rather  frightened.  "  Is  it  a 
shine? "  said  he. 

"  Is  what  a  shine?  " 

"I  mean — are  they  quarrelling?" 

"  Two  of  them  are.    Your  one  and  Jemima." 

"Jemima's  Mrs. -Pascoe?    Is  that  it?" 

"  I  suppose  she  is."  I  think  J  added  that  she  was  not  Mrs. 
Anything-Else.  It  was  my  habit  to  be  easily  satisfied  with  what- 
ever speech  presented  itself  for  utterance. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  263 

"  I  shan't  go  in,"  said  Mr.  Grayper  after  reflection.  He  became 
confidential.  "I  say,  Jackey,  look  here!  What  the  dooce  have 
they  got  to  fight  about  I " 

"  Nothing  in  particular — anything !    For  the  sake  of  the  row — 


any  row 


"  I  say,  look  here !  I  wish  you'd  go  in  and  get  your  sister  out. 
We  shan't  get  to  Shotfield  till  two  in  the  morning."  That  was 
the  name  of  their  villa  at  Petersham. 

I  was  an  obliging  boy.  Moreover,  it  was  easier  to  comply  than 
refuse.  "All  right!"  said  I.  "Next  time  there's  less  shindy!" 
I  went  and  listened  at  the  door  for  a  lull.  So  listening,  I  captured 
small  interchanges  in  the  shindy.  I  could  not  listen,  /or  it  to 
subside,  and  stop  my  ears  at  the  same  time. 

Roberta  was  saying : — "  Then  let  me  keep  away  altogether,  and 
not  come!  "  My  stepmother's  voice  came  audibly  and  musically, 
heard  against  the  somewhat  harsh  tension  of  my  sister's : — "  Mr. 
Pascoe,  be  fair  to  me!  Make  her  tell  you  what  she  has  against 
me!  What  have  I  done?" 

Then  I  heard  my  father,  trying  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled 
waters.  "  There — there,  Helen !  You  mustn't  mind  Bert.  It's 
only  Legitimate  Drama — not  Tragedy !  Come,  come !  " 

Then  Bert  again,  poignantly : — "  Papa — I  tell  you  I  am  in  earn- 
est," and  Jemima's  voice  struck  in  sharply: — "In  earnest  about 
what?  Make  her  tell  you  that!" 

My  father's  voice  had  in  it  no  note  of  levity  as  it  said : — "  You 
ought  not  to  find  fault,  Bert,  unless  you  are  prepared  to  indict  the 
culprit.  Think  what  friends  you  were,  when  Helen  was  Miss 
Evans,  and  at  least  tell  her  clearly  what  you  mean.  Remember, 
my  dear,  that  when  you  are  unkind  to  her  you  are  unkind  to  me." 
He  raised  his  voice  slightly,  suggesting  more  emphasis  to  come. 
"  Now  let's  have  an  end  of  all  this !  Kiss  your  stepmamma  and 
be  friends,  or  else  say  why  you  won't.  My  suggestion  is — do  the 
first,  and  let  the  last  alone ! " 

My  brother-in-law,  behind  me,  seemed  to  be  overhearing.  For 
he  said,  half  to  himself :—" Yes— that's  it!  Cut  the  cackle."  I 
had  never  heard  this  phrase,  but  thought  it  sounded  knowing.  I 
associated  it  with  footlights  and  flies. 

I  thought  the  lull  had  come,  and  got  the  door  ajar,  feeling  my 
way  to  entering.  Roberta's  voice  came  out  clearly,  saying : — "  I 
shall  do  neither.  She  can  tell  you,  as  well  as  I  can.  I  shall  not  say 
a  word  more.  I  am  sure  the  carriage  must  be  there,  waiting.  I 
suppose  my  husband  is  somewhere." 

I  put  my  head  in  at  the  door,  saying: — "Yes,  he's  out  here. 


264  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

getting  in  a  stew  about  the  time."  Anderson  Grayper  then  fol- 
lowed me  in,  his  wife  saying  to  him : — "  Oh,  you're  there,  are  you  ? 
Is  the  carriage  there  ?  "  Our  entry  made  the  previous  question  lapse, 
by  general  consent.  Roberta  kissed  her  father,  he  saying  nothing, 
but  looking  very  grave  and  displeased.  His  wife,  of  whom  Roberta 
took  no  cognizance,  hung  on  his  arm,  looking  at  her  enemy  more 
beseechingly  and  reproachfully  than  resentfully.  I  noticed  that 
the  red  spot  had  died  out  from  her  cheeks,  and  that  she  looked 
white  and  tearful.  It  certainly  seemed  to  me  that  my  father  was 
curiously  forbearing  towards  his  married  daughter,  who,  whatever 
her  grievance  against  Jemima  was,  had  no  excuse  for  so  odious 
and  unreasonable  an  attitude  towards  her. 

I  got  away  without  much  valediction,  and  found  Gracey  and 
Nebuchadnezzar  still  in  the  library,  in  earnest  colloquy  across  a 
very  small  table,  so  that  the  comparison  of  the  respective  black  and 
warm  brown,  rather  pale,  of  their  two  heads,  seemed  a  natural  one 
to  pass  through  my  mind.  I  assumed  that  they  had  been  talking 
all  this  while  about  me  and  my  valuable  drawings,  and  felt  con- 
firmed when  Gracey  said : — "  There  now,  Jackey,  wasn't  Monty  a 
perfect  darling?  Didn't  he  do  it  beautifully?"  And  Cooky,  look- 
ing up  at  me  with  a  happy  gleam  on  his  face,  said : — "  Yes — little 
Buttons!  And  I  hope  it  will  be  good  for  you." 

I  walked  with  him  affectionately  up  our  lane,  and  said  adieu 
when  his  omnibus  accrued ;  the  last  from  Putney,  with  one  place 
left  for  him  outside.  I  got  back  to  find  Gracey  interceding  with 
Raynes  not  to  shut  me  out.  She  and  I  had  a  kind  of  chorus  of 
jubilation  over  Cooky's  heroic  inveracity.  But  I  ended  up: — "  I'm 
sorry  he  thinks  me  a  duffer,  though.  Because  he  really  does,  you 
know!  Now  doesn't  he?"  I  hoped  Gracey  would  treat  this  with 
ridicule,  and  she  didn't.  However,  she  said : — "  You'll  be  able  to 
prove  he  was  wrong,  Jackey,  anyhow,  won't  you?"  Of  course  I 
should ! 

I  put  my  little  sister's  beaming  face  to  the  credit  of  the  moral 
victory  I  was  imputing  to  my  drawings,  and  was  about  to  retire 
to  my  own  den  when  I  was  intercepted  by  Varnish,  seeking  infor- 
mation about  an  incident  I  had  all  but  forgotten  already,  to  wit, 
the  emeuie  in  the  drawing-room.  "What  ever,"  she  asked,  "was 
Miss  Roberta  that  angry  about?  You  could  hear  her  all  the  way 
up  here ! " 

"  She  was  pitching  into  Jemima,"  said  I.  "  Good-night!  That's 
all  I  know." 

"  But,  Master  Jackey,  there  if  you  wasn't  actly  in  the  very  room, 
and  no  chance  to  be  off  hearing !  Now,  if  only  you'd  'a  listened !  " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  265 

I  was  not  prepared  to  admit  that  I  had  not  heard  the  whole. 
But  I  put  in  a  proviso  as  to  its  valuelessness.  "  It  was  only  because 
Bert  was  savage,  and  wanted  to  pay  Jemima  out."  I  then  told 
her  what  I  could  recollect  of  Bert's  words  and  Jemima's  retorts, 
adding  as  comment: — "  What  put  Jemima  in  a  rage  was  that  Bert 
went  dodging  about,  and  wouldn't  say  what  her  game  was." 

"  And  whose  side  was  you  on,  Master  Jackey  ? " 

"  Jemima's — a  little.    But  I  thought  them  both  beastly  fools." 

"  Now  be  a  good  boy,  and  say  it  again — what  your  pa's  good 
lady  said  about  Miss  Roberta  telling  what  she  had  against  her." 

"  What — all  that  rot  all  over  again !  .  .  .  .  Well — look  here ! 
..."  I  then  went  over  the  ground  again,  my  enunciation  of 
words  forming  an  interesting  commentary  on  file  and  volley-firing. 

"  And  she  was  for  your  pa  making  Miss  Roberta  up  and  say 
what  she  had  against  her?  Why  was  she  to,  now?"  Varnish 
seemed  very  thoughtful  over  this. 

"As  if  everybody  didn't  know  that!"  said  I,  scornfully.  And 
indeed,  even  now  I  think  Varnish  was  right.  What  earthly  pur- 
pose would  have  been  served  by  a  formal  indictment  of  Jemima  by 
Bert,  for  marrying  her  father,  when  the  thing  was  done  past  recall, 
and  the  guilty  couple  had  been  a  couple  for  over  two  years  past, 
and  were  standing  there  handfasted  and  armlinked,  facing  the 
accuser? 

An  evening  or  two  later,  my  father  and  I  being  alone  in  the 
library,  during  his  pipe-time,  he  said  to  me : — "  I've  made  up  my 
mind  what  to  do  with  you,  young  man.  You'll  send  in  your  draw- 
ings for  admission  to  the  Schools,  and  then  if  they  won't  have 
'em  .  .  .  Well ! — we  shan't  be  any  worse  off  than  we  were  before. 
If  they  will,  we  shall  see  what  you  make  of  it!  .  .  .  How  long 
will  it  take  to  see?  Can't  say.  We  shall  see  how  long  it  took 
when  it's  taken  it." 

I  accepted  the  postponement  of  the  fixture  I  had  inquired  about, 
with  a  cheerful  "  All  right !  "  and  looked  f orward  to  breaking  the 
fact  of  my  genius  gradually  on  Europe.  America  existed  certainly 
.  .  .  But ! 

My  father  went  on  to  indicate  a  second  string  to  my  profes- 
sional bow,  in  case  the  first  should  snap.  I  might  get  an  insight 
into  Architecture  t>y  attending  a  course  of  lectures  at  the  College 
in  the  evenings,  and  then  I  should  know  if  it  "would  be  a  congenial 
employment  to  me  if  Painting  seemed  unattractive.  He  would 
not  be  indisposed  to  welcome  that  outcome  of  the  experiment,  for 
he  had  been  assured  by  my  stepmamma  that  it  was  more  genteel 
to  be  an  Architect  than  an  Artist.  He  did  not  covet  gentility  for 


266  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

his  son  on  his  own  account,  but  it  would  at  least  be  a  satisfaction 
to  Helen.  I  knew  he  was  speaking  half  to  himself  at  that  moment, 
by  the  use  of  the  name. 

It  struck  me  then,  seeing  him — s6  to  speak — thinking  about  her, 
that  I  might  try  to  find  out  if  he  had  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
cause  of  Roberta's  vendetta  against  her.  I  had  developed  a  cu- 
riosity on  the  subject.  "  I  say,"  said  I,  "  what  was  it  set  it  off 
on  Saturday  ? " 

"What  was  it  what?"  said  he.  "Say  it  all  over  again.  And 
explain  incidentally  the  meaning  of  the  expression  to  '  set  off '." 

I  considered  that  I  answered  this  adequately  by  saying  that 
I  meant  the  evening  Goody  Walkinshaw  dined  here. 

My  father  looked  into  my  inquisitive  eyes  through  his  pipe- 
smoke,  as  if  I  was  an  amusing  phenomenon  whose  persistency  did 
not  displease  him,  and  said,  a  puff  or  two  later: — "  '  Goody  Walkin- 
shaw '  is  rude,  but  I  don't  know  why.  I  suppose  there  are  reasons 
for  not  saying  *  Mrs  Walkinshaw/  which  seems  the  most  obvious 
course.  Suppose  we  compromise,  and  make  it  '  Dame  Walkin- 
shaw'?" 

"All  right!"  said  I.  "Dame  does  as  well  as  Goody.  But  it 
was  Saturday,  anyhow.  What  made  Bert  flare  up  so  ? " 

"Unintelligible  Investigator!"  said  my  father,  making  a  new 
name  for  me  convey  his  opinion  of  my  method.  "  Assuming  that 
your  sister  can  be  fairly  said  to  have  flared  up,  I  believe  I  can  tell 
you  what  made  her  do  so.  It  was,  apparently,  because  they  inter- 
rupted her  reading  Hamlet." 

"What!     In  Shakespeare." 

"  Exactly — in  Shakespeare."  He  changed  his  manner  to  one 
more  serious.  "  Your  stepmamma  told  me  all  about  it  afterwards. 
Mind  you  recollect  it,  to  think  about  when  you  are  older  and  wiser, 
and  I'll  tell  you.  .  .  .  All  right,  is  it?  Very  well!  It  was  like 
this.  After  we  left  the  room,  Bert  was  unsociable,  and  would  only 
sit  reading,  and  hardly  answered  when  your  stepmamma  spoke  to 
her.  Well — that  wouldn't  have  been  unusual  if  she  had  been 
living  here  still,  like  old  times.  But  she  hadn't  been  here  for 
months." 

"  /  don't  see  that  Bert  matters." 

"  Very  likely  not.  But  she  does.  Because  she  is  one  of  your 
mamma's  girls.  Master  Jackey,  Besides,  they  were  such  friends, 
she  and  her  stepmother." 

"  I  should  have  left  her  alone,  to  read  Hamlet." 

"  Well,  you  see.  they  didn't  leave  her  alone,  but  asked  her,  one 
of  them,  where  she  was  reading.  I  think  she  said.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  267 

think  what  she  said  was: — 'Nothing  of  any  interest  to  you!  The 
Queen  was  the  Ghost's  widow,  and  the  new  King  was  the  Ghost's 
brother.  All  the  circumstances  were  entirely  different.' "  My 
father  paused,  looking  at  me  curiously,  as  though  he  wanted  to 
see  how  the  words  struck  me,  without  gloss  or  comment.  Then, 
as  I  hung  fire,  he  said,  as  though  to  prompt  me: — "You  know 
Hamlet?  You've  read  Hamlet?  ....  Well — what  do  you  make 
of  it  ?  " 

"  Bert  meant  everything  was  changed  across,"  said  I,  lucidly. 
"  But  she's  always  savage  with  Jemima,  about  that."  I  was  sorry 
a  moment  after  for  my  own  outspeech,  which  made  reserves  im- 
possible for  me  when  my  father  repeated  after  me: — " '  Meant 
everything  was  changed  across.'  What  was  everything,  in  this 
case?  "  I  had  to  find  words,  and  I  found  them  somehow,  to  explain 
that  whereas  Hamlet's  father  was  the  Ghost,  the  parallel  in  the 
case  of  my  family  would  assign  that  part  to  my  mother,  and  his 
stepfather-uncle's  part  would  be  allotted  to  my  stepmother. 

I  turned  very  red  and  stammered  over  this,  as  it  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  in  speech  to  my  father  treated  his  second  wife 
as  the  wearer  of  my  mother's  shoes.  He  did  not  seem  upset  or  dis- 
turbed by  my  doing  so,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  me  as  though 
he  read,  or  failed  to  read,  some  meaning  into  my  words  behind 
their  face-value.  He  only  said,  presently : — "  Well,  it  was  an 
unkind  speech,  anyhow!  We  must  hope  your  stepmamma  thought 
more  of  it  than  your  sister  meant  her  to  think.  Very  likely  she 
did.  However,  she  took  it  to  heart.  And  I  think  Bert  made  mat- 
ters worse  by  refusing  to  be  explicit.  I  suppose  she  was  frightened 
and  didn't  want  to  say  any  more,  really.  That's  one  way  of  look- 
ing at  it." 

Bert  frightened !  The  idea !  I  dismissed  it  with  the  words : — 
"She  didn't  care!  All  she  wanted  was  to  aggravate  Jemima." 
My  father  only  said: — "  Well,  she  succeeded;  at  least,  if  I  am  right 
in  my  interpretation  of  the  word  aggravate,  which  has  to  mean,  in 
this  case,  the  causing  of  undeserved  annoyance  to  the  aggravatee. 
not  any  addition  to  weight.  Your  stepmamma  had  a  very  bad 
feverish  night,  and  I  believed  she  would  have  slept  very  well  but 
for  that  rumpus." 

It  had  hung  in  my  mind  that  as  I  closed  the  drawing-room  door 
on  the  said  rumpus,  after  disposing  of  my  drawings,  Roberta  had 
seemed  to  me  to  say,  in  answer  to  my  father's  first  words  to  her: — 
"Why  am  I  to  be  silent?  Was  she  not  my  own  mother?"  I  re- 
peated this  to  him,  and  his  reply  was: — "Evidently  Hamlet.  The 
ghost  was  Hamlet's  own  father."  His  tone  gave  me  the  impres- 


268  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

sion  that  he  regarded  Bert's  outbreak  as  having  at  least  as  much 
connection  with  stage-mania  as  with  actual  cause  of  complaint 
against  her  stepmother.  Indeed,  poetry  apart,  why  should  grown- 
up sons  or  daughters  insist  on  either  parent  remaining  unmated 
after  the  other's  death? 

I  think  I  was  right  in  ascribing  to  Roberta  a  more  independent 
action  than  my  father's  stage-mania  theory  would  have  admitted. 
For,  when  curiosity  led  me  next  day  to  look  into  the  volume  she 
had  been  reading,  although  the  book-mark  was  certainly  in  Hamlet, 
nothing  in  the  text  in  that  place  seemed  on  all  fours  with  her  rela- 
tion to  her  stepmother.  I  can't  say  what  Act  and  Scene  it  was, 
but  I  remember  that  it  was  where  Hamlet  calls  himself  a  dull  and 
muddy-mettled  rascal,  like  John-a-dreams,  in  a  long  soliloquy  all 
about  the  murder  of  his  father.  Roberta  had  not  even  been  with 
us  on  that  visit  to  Highbury  two  years  since,  when  my  worthy 
granny's  suggestion  that  my  mother's  overdose  of  laudanum  should 
be  laid  at  my  father's  door  might  have  warped  her  mind  on  the 
subject. 

Of  course,  however,  the  book-mark  may  not  have  been  left  in 
the  place  where  she  left  off  reading. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MY  boyhood  is  difficult  to  record  from  the  fact  that  my  youth 
excluded  me  from  the  counsels  of  my  seniors.  Thus  my  narrative 
of  that  passage  of  arms  between  Roberta  and  our  stepmother  is 
merely  as  much  as  reached  me — not  a  substantial  history.  It 
happened  that  I  was  brought  in  contact,  as  narrated,  with  tangible 
event  in  that  slight  collision  between  them;  which,  according  to 
my  father,  began  in  Hamlet.  I  wish,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  that 
I  had  been  able  to  remember  more.  One  does  not  know  how  keenly 
one  can  feel  regret  for  the  loss  of  the  Past,  until  one  sits  down 
to  write  a  fair  and  intelligible  record  of  it.  The  Historian  is 
in  no  such  dilemma.  He  has  his  authorities,  and  can  interpret  or 
amplify  them  to  his  liking.  I  am  especially  badly  off,  having  no 
authority  but  my  Self  to  refer  to.  And  I  do  this  with  misgiving 
that  he  will  mislead  me,  as  often  as  not. 

He  has  not  misled  me,  I  know,  in  my  recollection  that  Jemima 
rose  in  my  estimation  after  that  fracas.  That  feverish  night, 
vouched  for  by  my  father,  told  in  her  favour;  and  in  addition  to 
that,  she  did  not  bear  malice.  Not  that  she  forgave.  With  a  good 
deal  of  tact — I  suppose  it  was  tact — she  hoped  that  one  day  Bertie 
would  forgive  her,  and  would  see  and  understand  the  altruism 
in  the  exercise  of  which  she  had  incurred  such  displeasure.  I 
accepted  this,  without  analysis  of  niceties.  But  it  was  the  sleep- 
lessness which  went  home  to  my  understanding,  and  made  me  say 
that  it  was  a  jolly  shame  to  keep  on  pitching  into  Jemima. 

I  must  have  worded  this  opinion,  thus  or  otherwise,  to  all  the 
members  of  my  family,  else  I  should  not  remember  how  each  one 
received  it.  My  father  patted  me  cordially  on  the  back,  saying: — 
"  A  very  pretty  sentiment.  Forgiveness  of  stepmothers  is  rare — 
so  let's  give  Jackey  credit."  Ellen  said : — u  That's  what  I  always 
keep  on  saying  to  Bert,  over  and  over  and  over  again.  And  it 
doesn't  do  any  good!  Oh  dear,  if  I've  said  it  once,  I've  said  it  fifty 
times."  She  recurred  a  good  deal  to  this  estimate.  Gracey  said, 
"Suppose  we  leave  off!"  and  evaded  the  subject.  Varnish  said, 
dropping  the  question  of  forgiveness,  and  taking  up  the  sleepless 

269 


270  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

night: — "  Half-an-hour,  I  lay!  No  one  ever  did  nor  ever  will 
lie  awake  all  night.  But  seemin'  goes  a  long  way."  She  would  not 
commit  herself  to  not  pitching  into  the  Sly  Cat,  though  she  never 
used  that  name  for  her  now. 

She — I  mean  The  Cat — adhered  to  the  views  she  had  expressed 
about  the  social  status  of  picture-painters;  and  I  think  really 
helped  my  case  with  my  father,  whose  dislike  of  the  subject  went 
the  length  of  a  parti  pris  against  all  consideration  of  the  respecta- 
bilities. This  unintentional  assistance  was  reinforced  by  her  pro- 
testation that  she  appreciated  the  remarkable  ability  shown  in  my 
work.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  critical  authority  of  Mrs  Walkin- 
shaw.  My  stepmother  was  not  inclined  to  be  behindhand  in  show- 
ing that  she  too  had  an  insight  int.o  the  Fine  Arts;  and  followed 
suit,  for  safety. 

All  went  well  for  my  wishes,  and  ill  for  me.  I  sent  my  drawings 
in  the  R.  A.,  and  they  passed.  My  probationary  drawings  fol- 
lowed, and  also  passed.  Then  I  was  an  Academy  Student,  and  had 
a  round  ivory  ticket  v\'ith  my  name  and  the  date.  It  was  lost,  I 
suppose,  with  all  my  other  things.  I  kept  it  as  a  kind  of  mascot, 
for  over  three  decades.  If  I  were  superstitious  I  might  believe 
that  it  acted  as  an  evil  talisman,  binding  me  to  a  trade  for  which 
I  never  had,  and  never  could  have,  any  adaptability  that  is  not  to 
be  found  in  any  youngster  of  moderate  capacity.  And  that  trade 
the  one  of  all  others  which  calls  for  special  qualifications  of  hand 
and  brain!  However,  I  am  not  superstitious;  at  least,  I  believe 
not.  An  important  reservation  that,  in  view  of  my  doubts  about 
the  meaning  of  the  word! 

Another  forty  years  and  the  memory  of  the  old  Academy  Schools 
will  linger  only  in  a  few  old,  old  noddles  for  a  while — a  short 
while — and  will  flicker  out  at  the  very  last  in  the  brain  of  some 
centenarian.  Burlington  House  was  still  a  decade  ahead  in  my 
day;  and  the  schools,  out  of  the  Exhibition  time,  were  in  the  Ex- 
hibition rooms.  The  way  in  was  under  the  right  hand  entry,  and 
there  was  a  door  on  each  side.  On  the  left,  to  the  schools;  on  the 
right,  to  the  library.  I  am  writing  it  down  now  to  recall  it  to 
my  Self.  I  think  it  must  have  been  in  the  autumn  of  fifty-seven 
that  I  entered  that  door  on  the  left.  Can  I  blame  it,  that  when  T 
did  so  lasciavo  ogni  speranza — left  behind  me,  that  is,  every  hope 
of  becoming  a  useful  member  of  Society  ?  Not  every  hope  of  com- 
ing out  again,  for  I  came  out  to  get  lunch. 

The  first  person  I  saw  at  work  in  the  Antique  School  was  my 
friend  who  had  lent  me  a  plumb-bob  at  Slocum's.  'Opkins.  He  was 
drawing  the  Discobolus  as  a  Probationer,  and  two  other  neophytes 


271 

were  a  droring  of  the  Discoblus  too;  so  he  informed  me.  I  made  a 
fourth. 

All  four  of  us  were  in  grim  earnest.  Probation  has  that  effect. 
There  were  plenty  of  other  draughtsmen  at  work,  or  passing  to 
and  fro,  young  and  old,  all  incorporated  as  Students;  some  of 
the  latter  were  Life-students,  I  was  told,  who  had  been  at  work 
all  their  lives  in  the  schools.  These,  however,  were  great  creatures, 
learning  to  paint  in  the  next  room.  I  felt  that  there  must  be 
difficulties  in  Art — serious  ones!  These  elderly  men  were  still 
learning — hadn't  learned  yet!  Perhaps  it  was  only  their  humility, 
if  one  knew! 

As  for  those  I  saw  drawing — probates,  I  suppose,  as  they  had 
passed  through  successfully — I  was  strongly  impressed  with  the 
persistency  with  which  they  gazed  on  their  own  work,  glancing 
occasionally  at  its  original  for  comparison.  Now  and  then,  rarely, 
as  a  fly  occasionally  touches  the  surface  of  a  still  pool,  the  point  of 
a  crayon  or  the  bustle  of  a  stump  touched  the  surface  of  a  draw- 
ing. The  serene  contemplation  of  achievement,  which  filled  tho 
gaps  between  the  touches,  set  thought  on  the  alert  to  determine 
when  the  drawings  were  actually  executed;  a  task  before  which 
thought  reeled  and  staggered  speechless.  A  fair  percentage  of 
these  matured  students  seemed  morally  degenerate — more  repro- 
bates than  probates — passing  their  time  in  the  exchange  of  rep- 
artees, the  comparison  of  the  beauty  of  actresses,  or  reminiscences 
of  theatrical  tit-bits. 

My  reason  now  revolts  against  my  recollection  of  the  way  in 
which  order  was  maintained  in  this  school,  but  no  concession  is 
made  by  Memory.  I  cannot  rid  my  mind  of  an  image  of  a  sort  of 
dog-kennel  in  a  corner,  in  which  Authority  lay  hid  in  the  form  of 
a  Curator,  or,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  from  which  it  came  out  in 
that  form;  for  the  inner  life  of  that  kennel  was  as  hidden  from 
us  students  as  ever  was  that  of  Maskelyne's  and  Cooke's  guest, 
agent,  representatives,  or  proxy,  tied  up  inside  a  cabinet.  Xo 
beautiful  female  arms  shot  out  from  that  dog-kennel,  but  Authority 
now  and  then  said,  "Too  much  noise!"  as  if  its  slumbers  were 
disturbed.  Otherwise,  nothing  happened. 

Indeed,  I  now  look  back  to  the  Antique  School  as  a  sort  of 
backwater  in  the  flow  of  Event  rather  than  an  Institution.  If 
anything  had  happened  there  in  my  time  I  should  surely  recollect 
it.  But  it  only  presents  itself  to  me  now  as  easels — perhaps  I 
should  add  boxes — above  which  rise  into  the  gloom  Mars,  Bacchus, 
and  Apollo,  while  one  Gladiator  dies  on  one  pedestal  and  two 
others  fight  on  another.  I  wonder,  if  the  ghosts  of  Myron  or 


272  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Scopas  ever  came  to  London — a  city  that  was  a  morass,  in  their 
day — and  chanced  upon  casts  of  their  own  works  knee-deep  in 
easels,  would  they  know  what  to  make  of  it!  What  would  they 
think  had  possessed  the  Northern.  Barbarian,  to  complicate  his 
Hyperborean  life  with  images  they  remembered  making,  ages  long 
ago,  this  side  of  Styx,* in  the  sunshine  of  the  Acropolis? 

I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  no  one  of  the  four  proba- 
tioners who  got  the  Discobolus  done  in  plenty  of  time  looked  at 
the  work  of  Myron  in  a  way  that  would  have  pleased  that  sculptor's 
ghost.  Artists  are  such  egotists.  I  doubt  if  Beethoven  would 
have  been  pleased  with  the  compliment  paid  him  by  a  young  man 
'Opkins  had  known,  who  had  a  fine  tenor  voice.  All  his  friends 
said  so.  It  was  his  duty  to  practise  such  a  fine  tenor  voice. 
And  what  could  he  do  better  than  get  a  seat  for  Sims  Reeves  at 
the  Monday  Pop,  and  go  on  singing  Adelarder  till  he  could  sing 
it  reg'lar  well?  Myron's  ghost  might  have  had  feelings  akin  to 
Beethoven's,  in  his  parallel  case,  could  he  have  seen  those  four 
Discoboli,  day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  and  have  been  alive 
to  the  plenitude  of  indifference  with  which  their  authors  had 
come  to  regard  the  plastic  Art  of  their  original.  I  remember 
something  of  an  opinion  to  this  effect  creeping  into  my  conversa- 
tions with  my  neighbour,  and  evolving  the  particulars  of  his 
musical  friend's  abuse,  as  I  considered  it,  of  Beethoven's  song.  I 
find  that  his  pronunciation  of  its  name,  as  I  have  written  it, 
— suggestive  of  meat  storage  to  some,  no  doubt — means  to  me  four 
Discobolusses  on  imperial  sheets  of  Whatman's  handmade,  two  of 
them  done  in  Conte;  and  the  original  with  his  quoit  still  uu- 
thrown,  as  sure  to  fly  right  now,  if  only  its  Destiny  would  come 
to  the  scratch,  as  it  was  when  Myron  got  him  done,  in  plenty  of 
time,  two-and-a-half'thousand  years  ago. 

"  Old  Lofft  knoo  Foozly,"  said  'Opkins  to  me  one  day  then- 
abouts.  "I  don't  see  anythin'  in  that!  Foozly  was  'ardly  dead 
when  I  was  born."  Lofft  was  the  Curator  who  dwelt  in  the  dog- 
kennel. 

One  of  the  Conte  chalksmen  turned  a  lack-lustre  eye  halfway, 
and  said: — "Ain't  you  sticking  it  on?" 

"  I  don't  foller  your  idear,"  said  'Opkins.    "  Stickin'  what  on?" 

The  Eye  came  round  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  its  owner  said: — 
"  You  ain't  thirty." 

"Never  said  I  was.  Five  and  twenty's  my  figger!"  But  the 
speaker  was  compelled  to  admit  that  the  expression  "  hardly  dead  " 
was  strained  and  exaggerated,  Fuseli  having  been  quite  dead — 
buried  at  least — well  over  thirty  years  ago. 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  273 

Discussion  of  the  point  grew  warm  and  was  cut  short  by.  "  Too 
much  iioise!"  from  the  dog-kennel.  I  felt  that  it  contained  a 
connecting  link,  for  surely  Fuseli  was  a  friend  of  Reynolds.  But 
if  our  presiding  genius  in  the  kennel  was  a  connecting  link  with 
the  past,  how  much  more  so  was  old  Gromp,  who  was  eighty-four. 
I  was  so  interested  in  this  that  I  looked  up  dates,  and  found  that 
Gromp  was  eleven  years  old  when  Reynolds  died.  Of  course  he 
could  remember  him.  But  then  of  course  also  he  would  have  had 
to  see  him.  I  resolved  to  question  the  old  boy  on  this  point  next 
time  I  visited  him.  He  had  very  kindly  volunteered  to  take  a 
look  at  my  drawings  at  intervals,  and  I  was  to  go  to  his  den  for 
the  purpose  as  occasion  offered. 

This  happened  after  I  had  got  my  admission  as  student,  and 
reclaimed  my  probationary  drawings.  I  showed  my  Discobolus  with 
pride  to  my  family  circle,  and  felt  that  their  approval  was.  the 
thin  end  of  the  wedge  of  European  fame.  Besides,  I  felt  meritori- 
ous, for  I  had  been  taking  pains.  Reassured  by  their  plaudits, 
I  took  my  courage  in  both  hands,  and  started  by  my  Self  to  see 
the  old  Academician  one  Sunday  morning  when  there  was  thin 
snow  on  the  roadway  into  The  Retreat,  which  had  only  been  dis- 
turbed by  The  Milk's  wheels — for  it  reached  us  on  a  sort  of 
perambulator — showing  how  early  I  parted  from  Gracey  at  the 
gate,  winged  by  her  benediction.  Tt  also  shows  the  time  of  year, 
or  that  it  was  next  year;  I  cannot  say  which  now,  but  I  remember 
the  snow.  The  fact  that  it  had  been  pounded  slushy  in  the  main 
road  by  the  few  busses  that  had  lurched  deliberately  to  town,  re- 
mains in  my  mind  as  evidence  that  it  was  late  Autumn,  not  early 
Spring. 

But  I  know  the  day  was  still  young  apart  from  that.  For  the 
time  Gromp  had  fixed  was  not  a  minute  later  than  ten,  and  I  had 
made  so  many  allowances  for  so  many  contingencies,  that  as  I 
passed  over  the  bridge  in  Hyde  Park  the  big  new  bell  at  West- 
minster rang  nine.  My  pedestrian's  feet  carried  me  easily  the 
rest  of  the  way  in  thirty  minutes.  Then  just  outside  my  destina- 
tion I  had  a  fit  of  shyness — fear  of  being  too  early — that  kept  me 
hesitating  about  pulling  the  bell,  the  whole  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
I  wonder  now,  if  I  had  not  had  that  fit  of  shyness,  would  there 
have  been  time  to  ask  him  the  question  I  had  been  treasuring  in 
my  mind?  Had  he  ever  seen  Reynolds? 

However,  it  was  written  otherwise  in  Fate's  book.  At  a  quarter- 
to-ten  I  pulled  the  gate-bell,  and  had  misgivings  that  it  would 
never  stop,  and  that  I  should  be  held  responsible.  Tt  died  down 
in  the  and,  to  my  great  relief,  and  the  housekeeper  cnme.  in  a 


274  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

clean  apron  and  curl-papers.  Was  it  not  church-time  soon?  She 
remembered  my  face,  and  moreover  her  master  had  said  he  expected 
me — for  I  had  written  to  him — and  that  I  was  to  go  straight  in. 
Mr.  Gromp  would  be  there  directly.  I  went  straight  in,  and  she 
closed  the  door  behind  me  with  caution.  I  was  a  premature  visitor; 
ten  minutes  too  soon,  clearly.  I  could  look  about  me,  and  did  so. 

There  was  a  picture  on  the  easel,  which  must  have  been  Milton 
dictating  something;  preferably  Paradise  Lost,  as  the  middle-aged 
principal  character,  with  two  fingers  on  his  brow  to  co-operate 
with  thought,  and  his  spare  hand  outstretched  to  indicate  its 
delivery  to  a  listening  world,  was  palpably  blind,  though  illumi- 
nated by  Inspiration.  The  purity  of  his  white  throat-gear,  starch 
itself,  was  all  but  equal  to  that  of  the  two  she-Puritans — his 
daughters,  I  presume — which  was  really  enough  to  knock  out  any 
unprepared  person,  not  a  strong  moralist.  One  of  them  was  acting 
as  scribe;  the  other,  with  clasped  hands,  was  welling  or  gushing 
— from  founts  nearest  the  heart,  I  should  say.  I  suppose  it  is 
owing  to  some  subsequent  commentary  overheard,  or  critique  read, 
that  my  mind  conceives  that  the  Poet  was  meant  to  be  dictating 
the  beautiful  words : — "  Pie  to  God  only,  she  to  God  in  him." 
Because  I  really  have  not  a  particle  of  reason  for  supposing  that 
any  particular  passage  is  referred  to. 

I  dutifully  went  through  the  form  of  hoping  internally  that  I 
should  one  day  paint  such  a  beautiful  and  touching  picture,  and 
turned  to  examine  another,  hung  high  up  on  the  wall.  It  was  in 
another  style,  in  which  I  discerned  Gray's  Bard.  I  had  recited 
him  at  school  and  knew  him  of  old.  There  he  was,  on  the  rock 
whose  haughty  brow  o'erlooked  old  Conway's  foaming  flood;  and 
there  was  the  crested  pride  of  the  first  Edward,  moved  to  wild 
dismay  on  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side  by  the  voice  of  a 
singer  ten  miles  off.  I  had  not  been  at  Bettws-y-coed  in  those  days, 
and  I  took  it  all  seriously,  and  wondered  whether  I  too  should 
one  day  be  able  to  paint  a  beard  like  that.  And  there,  as  large 
as  life,  was  Boadicea,  bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods,  and  the 
venerable  Impostor  whose  tongue's  terrors  were  tied  by  resentment, 
or  he  would  have  done  wonders — honour  bright!  There  he  was, 
spreading  oak  and  all! 

Then,  as  I  was  afraid  to  move  from  the  island,  for  fear  of 
disturbing  the  dust,  I  turned  to  examine  the  miscellanea  over  the 
chimney  piece.  There  was  the  usual  allowance  of  slight  drawings 
with  resolute  signatures  and  margins  that  brazened  out  their 
vacuity;  of  water  colours  that  had  clearly  been  dashed  in,  so  that 
you  could  acknowledge  their  broad  treatment  without  being  fright- 


THE  NAREATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  275 

ened,  which  you  might  have  been  if  there  had  been  any  evidence  of 
painstaking;  of  Senef elder  lithographs  and  Stothard  mezzotints — 
all  the  things  one  counted  upon  at  that  date  in  anchorages  undis- 
turbed for  a  generation  or  more.  But  what  interested  me  most  was 
an  oil  sketch  of  a  boy,  not  over  six  years  old,  with  ''  Reynolds  " 
on  the  frame,  and  the  date  1TS5.  That  boy  might  easily  have 
changed  into  Gromp  R.A.  Yes — that  was  his  sort  of  age  seventy- 
seven  years  ago.  I  stood  before  the  picture  trying  to  detect  a 
likeness  to  my  recollection  of  the  old  man's  face — with  some 
success  as  I  thought — and  wondering  when  he  himself  would  make 
his  appearance.  I  was  more  than  ever  anxious  to  hear  about 
Reynolds,  of  whom  I  felt  convinced  he  must  have  memories. 

The  cat,  who  had  knocked  the  books  down  when  I  came  before, 
seemed  for  once  sleepless,  and  came  curling  about  my  legs,  inquir- 
ing for  refreshment,  as  I  understood  her.  I  explained  that  I 
had  brought  none,  and  stroked  her;  but  she  seemed  indifferent  to 
mere  platonic  affection,  and  sat  down  close  to  a  door  I  had  not 
noticed  so  far;  not  curling  up  for  a  nap,  but  apparently  wishing 
to  have  it  opened.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  meet  her  views,  being  a 
mere  visitor. 

Presently  came  a  tap  at  the  other  door,  and  the  housekeeper, 
in  her  Sunday  best,  duly  armed  with  a  prayer-book,  looked  in  to 
say: — "I'm  just  off  to  Church,  Mr.  Gomp.  Is  there  anything  else 
before  I  go  ?  "  She  fancied  he  was  on  my  side  of  the  easel-picture 
unseen. 

"  Mr.  Gromp  isn't  here,"  said  I.     "  I  was  waiting." 

" Lock-a-daisy  think  of  that  now,  young  master!  Isn't  he  out 
of  his  room  ?  Why,  to  be  sure,  I  thought  he  was  safe  and  certain 
to  hear  and  come  out."  She  pondered  a  little,  looking  serious,  and 
then  said: — "It's  very  like  he's  dropped  asleep  in  his  chair.  Be- 
cause he  has' done  that  and  he  does  do  that,  there's  no  denying, 
but  as  I  say  where's  the  harm,  whatever  time  of  day." 

I  had  no  apprehension  of  anything  wrong,  and  indeed  had  some 
vague  idea  of  vouching  for  the  practice  of  sleeping  after  breakfast 
in  my  family.  I  contented  myself  with  expressing  my  readiness 
to  wait  on  indefinitely,  with  the  addendum: — "  I  say.  I  hope  he's 
quite  well."  I  suppose  I  felt  that  at  some  future  time  I  might 
feel  uneasy,  not  more  than  that. 

"  Yes,  indeed !  "  said  the  housekeeper.  "  Because  eighty-four 
ain't  eighteen,  and  I'm  late  for  Church  already."  She  deliberated 
a  moment;  and  then,  almost  in  a  whisper,  said: — "Look  here  now, 
young  gentleman,  I'll  tell  you  what's  best  to  do.  Just  you  set 
down,  and  wait  for  him  coming  out.  He'll  wake  up  within  ten 


276  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

minutes,  because  that's  the  most  his  nap'll  last.  Then  you'll  hears 
him  move  about  and  just  you  tap  on  the  door  and  say  it's  you. 
I've  no  call  for  to  wait,  that  I  can  see."  She  hesitated,  for  all 
that;  in  spite  too  of  the  cordial '  confidence  of  my  "All  right!" 
I  wanted  her  to  go,  appreciating  the  dramatic  importance  of  my 
own  position.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  she.  "  I'll  just 
look  in,  quiet-like,  without  waking  him,  to  see  that  he's  all  right, 
and  then  you  wait  another  ten  minutes.  Only  he'll  come  out. 
You'll  see!" 

She  went  to  the  bedroom  door,  opened  it  very  gently,  and 
closed  it  after  looking  in.  "  All  quite  right !  "  said  she.  "  He's 
in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  and  it's  made  up."  The  cat  shot  noise- 
lessly through  the  first  inch  or  so  of  opening,  causing  comment: — 
"  She's  not  allowed  in  there,  and  she  knows  it.  But  just  this 
once  won't  hurt."  And  then  I  was  left  alone  with  Gray's  Bard, 
and  Boadicea's  Druid,  and  the  everlasting  pause  in  Paradise  Lost. 
I  daresay  it  was  then  that  I  selected  that  line  for  the  inspired 
mouth  to  have  just  spoken. 

I  suspected  that  I  was  alone  in  the  house,  and  really  had  at  first 
no  idea  of  acting  on  the  suggestion  of  the  housekeeper  and  knock- 
ing at  the  bedroom  door.  I  would  wait  for  the  spontaneous  appear- 
ance of  the  ancient  painter — so  I  resolved — until  the  moment  when 
I  should  be  compelled  to  depart  by  the  necessity  of  my  presence 
at  home;  and  I  would  then  depart  silently,  leaving  my  drawing 
perhaps,  and  writing  from  Chelsea  to  ask  when  I  should  call  for 
it  on  another  day.  But  I  had  not  reckoned  with  the  effect  of 
prolonged  solitude  and  silence. 

Even  the  cat  would  have  been  an  alleviation.  The  ticking  of 
the  clock,  which  I  had  never  noticed  before,  became  first  a  fact 
in  the  stillness,  then  a  monotonous  repetition  of  words: — "Don't 
wait — don't  wait — don't  wait — don't  wait !  "  Then  for  variety : — 
"  Why  stop — why  stop  ? "  And  then  when  these  words  had  lasted, 
on  the  speaker's  own  evidence,  a  full  quarter-of-an-hour,  it  changed 
suddenly  to : — "  Best  knock — best  knock — best  knock !  "  Once  the 
clock's  speech  became  plain,  it  seemed  to  me  more  vociferous  in 
the  silence;  as  though  this  was  really  what  it  had  meant  all  along, 
and  it  had  only  been  my  slow  apprehension  that  ignored  it. 

I  tried  in  vain  to  rob  the  clock-tick  of  this  meaning,  and 
thought  another  sound  that  asserted  itself  also  for  the  first 
time  would  help  me;  some  mysterious  choke  and  drip  that  the 
water  supply  was,  I  suppose,  responsible  for.  But  its  indecisive 
bursts  and  gurgles  had  no  force  against  the  monotonous  resolu- 
tion of  the  clock-tick.  "  Best  knock — best  knock ! — best  knock !  " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  277 

After  all,  had  I  not  best  knock?  Was  I  not  sufficiently  author- 
ized to  do  so  by  the  distinct  instruction  of  an  old  and  trustworthy 
retainer?  For  there  was  no  doubt  about  her;  her  cap  frill  and 
the  ribbons  of  her  old-fashioned  bonnet  were  enough  alone,  without 
the  prayer-book.  Surely  to  be  able  to  say,  "  Your  housekeeper  told 
me  to  knock,"  would  warrant  that  latitude  of  action. 

I  approached  the  door,  timidly  enough,  and  tapped  gently.  No 
answer.  Again,  louder — louder  than  I  meant,  for  I  was  rather 
frightened  at  the  sound.  But  still — no  answer!  If  that  most  re- 
sponsible housekeeper  had  any  sufficient  warrant  for  saying  he 
was  safe  to  come  out  soon,  surely  half-an-hour's  delay  meant  some- 
thing wrong. 

I  don't  think  the  circumstances  justified  my  opening  that  door; 
and  I  thought  they  did  not,  even  as  I  did  it.  I  cannot  remember 
now  how  I  apologized  to  myself  for  my  action.  I  can  only  recol- 
lect that  I  did  open  it,  and  looked  in.  The  cat  surprised  me; 
forcing  herself  through,  and  vanishing  somewhere  into  furni- 
ture. 

All  was  as  the  responsible  housekeeper  had  said.  There,  in  an 
armchair,  was  the  old  painter  asleep,  before  a  brightly  burning  fire. 
I  had  no  right  to  wake  him.  My  course  was  clear — to  retire,  leav- 
ing my  drawing  in  any  conspicuous  spot,  and  write  to  him  from 
Chelsea. 

I  had  closed  the  door  gently,  and  had  chosen  the  writing-table 
as  the  best  place  for  the  drawing,  before  a  sombre  thought  stirred 
in  my  mind,  somehow  reviving  my  memory  of  my  mother,  that 
day  when  my  misgiving  about  her  sent  me  to  summon  my  father 
to  her  bedside,  none  too  soon.  It  never  shaped  itself  into  words, 

though  they  began  a  question : — "  How  if  he  too ?  "  How  if  he 

too — what  ?  I  could  not  leave  that  question  unanswered,  to  work, 
all  through  my  journey  home,  until  I  came  to  speech  with  my 
father  or  Gracey,  to  pooh-pooh  it.  I  mu-st  know,  now,  though  I 
was  taking  for  granted  that  my  own  thought  was  nonsense. 

Back  again  to  the  door,  furtively !  My  hesitation  on  the  handle 
made  it  shriek  like  a  mandrake  root;  door-handles  do,  when  one 
wants  them  silent.  Surely  that  noise  would  wake  him!  But  it 
did  not.  There  he  lay,  his  hand  hanging  as  I  had  seen  it  before, 
impassive  over  the  arm  of  his  chair.  I  must  see  his  face.  If  he 
was  so  sound  asleep  he  would  never  see  me. 

Against  my  conviction  of  any  right  I  had,  I  went  a-tiptoe,  like 
a  thief  in  the  night,  till  I  all  but  saw  the  old  face  in  profile. 
He  slept  with  his  mouth  open.  .  .  .  Well — what  of  that  ?  Some 
do.  But  that  sombre  thought  of  my  mother  caught  at  something 


278  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

in  the  surroundings,  and  made  it  an  excuse  for  activity.  The 
image  of  Death  was  upon  me  before  I  saw  his  eyes,  still  open,  but 
lustreless.  Then  I  knew  the  meaning  of  it  all. 

A  painful  fascination  drew  me  to  touch  for  a  moment  the  cold 
nerveless  hand.  Then,  crying  for  some  help,  yet  knowing  none  was 
in  the  house,  I  made  for  the  street-door,  and  leaving  it  open,  went 
out. 

A  very  respectable-looking  gentleman  was  consulting  a  pocket- 
book  two  doors  off,  before  getting  into  a  compact  brougham.  To 
me  the  words  "  medical  man  "  seemed  to  be  written  large  all  over 
him  and  the  carriage  too.  I  suppose  my  appearance  spoke  my 
errand,  for  before  I  could  shape  it  in  words,  he  said : — "  Which 
house?" 

I  led  the  way  rapidly,  giving  the  best  quick  abstract  I  could 
manage  of  what  I  had  seen.  The  gentleman  had  a  leather  case 
in  his  hand  as  we  passed  through  the  Studio,  and  opened  it  when 
he  saw  the  motionless  body,  without  so  much  as  pausing  to  search 
for  a  pulse.  I  have  seen  morphia  injected  more  than  once  since 
then,  in  cases  of  heart-failure,  but  never  more  promptly.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  it  was  before  he  said: — "Quite  useless  of  course! 
But  one  does  it."  Then  he  turned  to  me,  saying: — "  And  you  know 
that  there  is  no  one  in  the  house?" 

I  explained  further  the  position  of  things,  and  that  I  was,  so 
to  speak,  a  mere  accident  of  it.  He  only  said : — "  I  must  stop 
and  see  this  out."  Then  I  became  aware  how  painful  it  would  be 
to  tell  the  old  housekeeper.  I  felt  so  certain  she  had  been  in  that 
position  many  years.  I  tried  to  communicate  this  apprehension 
to  the  doctor,  saying,  "  She's  an  awfully  old  servant,  you  know!  " 
under  my  breath.  To  my  relief  he  seemed  to  seize  the  idea  readily. 
"  I  quite  understand,"  said  he.  "  She  will  have  a  latch-key  to 
let  herself  in,  and  she  must  not  be  allowed  in  here  at  once."  He 
considered  a  moment,  and  added: — "The  best  thing  will  be  for 
you  to  wait  in  the  Studio,  and  let  her  find  you  there.  I  must  remain 
here  till  she  comes,  or  some  one." 

"Am  I  to  tell  her?"  said  I,  flinching  from  the  task. 

"  She  will  see,  without  much  telling,"  he  answered.  "  You  might 
say  the  doctor  is  here." 

I  did  as  he  told  me,  feeling  thoroughly  frightened  and  op- 
pressed. I  certainly  have  seldom  had  a  more  uncomfortable  half- 
hour  than  the  one  that  followed.  I  could  only  sit  gazing  in  a 
bewildered  stupefaction  at  the  boy's  portrait,  painted  by  Reynolds 
.  .  .  how  many  years  ago  ?  Close  upon  eighty,  somewhere !  All 
the  mystery  of  Life  and  Time  was  upon  me,  as  I  looked  at  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  279 

child's  face,  and  tried  to  see  in  it  the  old,  old  face  I  had  just  seen, 
cold  in  Death. 

I  started  up  at  the  sound  of  a  latch-key  outside  and  waited, 
with  my  eyes  on  the  room-door,  wondering  whether  my  voice  would 
coine  when  I  needed  it.  I  heard  the  housekeeper  talk  to  herself 
in  the  passage,  but  the  only  articulation  was : — "  Highty-tighty !  " 
Then  she  came  on  quicker,  and  tapped ;  then  came  into  the  room, 
looking  alarmed.  "  Is  the  doctor  here?"  she  said.  "It's  not  his 
time  till  two."  She  had  seen  the  hat  and  gloves  outside.  I  suppose 
doctors'  hats  were  distinguishable  in  those  days.  I  don't  know. 

"Yes,  a  doctor!"  said  my  voice,  and  at  the  sound  of  it — really 
I  hardly  knew  it  for  mine! — the  woman  stopped,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  me,  with  a  scared  look  growing  in  them.  But  I  don't 
think  she  connected  me  with  its  cause.  I  was  only  a  bystander 
who  had  seen  the  doctor  pass  through — exchanged  a  word  with 
him  perhaps.  But  why  was  I  still  there? 

"  You'll  be  late  home,  young  gentleman,"  said  she,  and  was 
passing  on. 

"  No — no — please  no !  Please  not  yet !  Let  me  say "  I 

stammered  a  good  deal  as  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  arm  to  arrest  her. 
A  sudden  understanding  came  into  the  scared  look,  and  then  came 
a  cry: — "Oh,  master,  master!  After  so  many  years!"  I  saw  she 
knew,  and  that  the  doctor  was  right.  She  had  seen,  without  much 
telling. 

I  was  very  late  home,  for  I  stayed  to  be  of  what  use  I  might, 
as  bearer  of  the  news  to  the  old  man's  nearest  relative,  a  mar- 
ried niece;  and  otherwise.  I  could  not  disguise  from  myself  that 
this  lady  and  her  family  bore  the  shock  remarkably  well,  and 
cynicism  suggested  later  that  they  were  borne  up  in  their  affliction 
by  an  anticipated  fulfilment  of  expectations.  I  did,  however, 
gather  that  his  death  from  heart-weakness,  suddenly,  had  been 
predicted  for  many  years,  so  cynicism  may  have  been  unfair,  as 
is  not  uncommonly  the  case.  She  was,  however,  so  emphatic  about 
the  matter,  that  I  remember  a  sort  of  malicious  pleasure  at  the 
announcement  that  he  had  left  a  great  deal  of  his  money  to 
Trustees,  to  purchase  Historical  Pictures  for  deserving  Public 
Institutions.  I  shall  die,  as  I  now  know,  much  as  he  did,  and  I 
trust  this  Institution  will  be  the  gainer. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

IT  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  I  reached  The  Retreat,  and 
found  Gracey  watching  anxiously  at  the  gate.  She  ran  on  ahead 
of  me  as  a  harbinger  of  tidings  to  my  kin,  to  whom  she  imputed 
solicitude  about  me  equal  to  her  own.  I  heard  her  joyously  an- 
nouncing my  safe  return,  and  was  conscious  that  the  family  was 
saying  of  course  I  was  all  safe,  and  it  had  said  so  all  along,  and 
what  a  silly  she  was  to  get  in  a  fuss  about  nothing!  She  was  so 
glad  to  see  me  that  she  never  stopped  to  hear  what  had  made  me 
late. 

I  was  taciturn  about  what  had  happened,  and  made  no  reply 
to,  "  Well — now  tell  us  all  about  it !  "  except  that  I  would  do  so 
when  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  had  gone.  For  that  lady's  volubility  was 
audible  in  the  drawing-room,  and  I  not  only  felt  a  shrinking  from 
public  life,  but  a  strong  attraction  towards  the  dining-room,  whero 
the  tablecloth  had  been  doubled  to  reduce  its  area  and  qualify  it  to 
pasture  a  solitary  biped  with  an  aftermath  of  Sunday  dinner. 
It  was  so  late  that  my  reason  was  saying: — "  Wait  for  cold  supper, 
at  seven ! "  But  voracity,  with  strong  support  from  Gracey,  got 
the  better  of  reason,  in  spite  of  the  assistance  the  latter  received 
from  the  moral  or  spiritual  revolt  against  food — a  thing  quite 
compatible  with  technical  hunger. 

I  found  it  easiest  to  surrender  to  Gracey,  who  established  her- 
self at  the  far  end  of  the  table  with  her  chin  on  her  hands — 
how  well  I  remember  that  way  she  had ! — to  see  justice  done  to 
the  aftermath.  But  I  made  a  poor  show  as  a  trencherman,  barely 
quenching  the  hunger  of  eighteen,  unfed  for  eight  hours;  for  I 
had  left  home  early,  and  had  walked  many  miles.  Gracey  took  ma 
up  short,  as  the  phrase  is,  over  a  rechauffe  apple-dumpling  which 
I  should  have  appreciated  keenly  at  another  time. 

"  What — not  finish  your  pudding,  Jackey.    What's  the  matter? " 

I  said,  "Oh — well!"  and  after  a  very  mechanical  renewal  of 
attention  to  the  unfinished  banquet,  "There  now!  That's  plenty, 
in  all  conscience!"  and  pushed  my  plate  away. 

"Jackey!  Something's  the  matter.  Don't  say  it  isn't!"  She 
withdrew  one  pretty  hand  from  her  chin,  to  point  at  me — an 
admonition  to  truth.  "  Mr.  Gromp  says  your  drawing's  bad." 

280 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  281 

*  No,  he  didn't." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  nothing.  He  c-couldn't  say  anything.  I'll  toll  you 
soon." 

"  Oh,  Jackey !    Tell  me  now.    What  was  it? " 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  Goody  Walkinshaw's  .  .  .  Walkinshawed 
herself  out  of  the  house."  I  remember  perfectly  using  this  very  pe- 
culiar phrase,  which,  strange  to  say,  Gracey  accepted  as  reasonable 
without  comment.  Our  terms  of  intercourse  were  on  these  lines. 

"  No — tell  me  now !  I  hear  her  not  going.  Now  be  a  dear 
boy,  and  don't  be  sprocketty."  I  believe  I -have  recalled  this 
family  word  before.  It  requires  no  interpretation — takes  care 
of  its  own  meaning,  helped  by  context. 

"  Well — I  will,  the  minute  she's  out.     She  is  going,  I  tell  you." 

"  She  doesn't  mean  to  go  for  ever  so  long.  That's  not  winding 
up.  She's  talking  in  long  sentences."  Which  showed  observation 
of  human  nature.  Departures  chop  conversation  up. 

A  visitor  was  identified  by  Gracey  from  the  window.  "I'll 
make  Monty  come  and  make  you  tell,"  said  she,  and  ran  out  Lo 
capture  Nebuchadnezzar.  He  came  in,  looking  as  Assyrian  as 
ever.  "  Do  come  and  manage  this  naughty  boy,"  Gracey  said. 
"  He  won't  tell  me  what  Mr.  Gromp  has  said  about  his  drawing." 

"Wliat  did  he  say,  little  Buttons?" 

An  idea  occurred  to  me.  "  Look  here.  Cooky !  "  I  said,  aside. 
"  I'll  tell  you  alone,  but  I  won't  while  Gracey's  here.  You  tell 
her  to  hook  it,  and  then  I'll  tell  you."  Telegraphic  exchanges 
followed,  and  Gracey  fled. 

I  believe  the  reason  I  found  it  easier  to  tell  Cooky  was  simply 
that  my  having  something  to  tell  was  the  first  thing  he  heard  on 
entering  the  room.  Every  moment  that  a  painful  piece  of  news 
remains  untold,  beyond  its  first  communicability,  is  tacitly  ac- 
cepted as  evidence  of  its  non-existence.  There  was  no  serious 
difficulty  in  saying,  after  the  door  had  closed  on  Gracey,  in  a 
mysterious  undertone  conveying  its  importance: — "He's  died  of 
heart  complaint — old  Mr.  Gromp  has.  Just  before."  Obviously, 
just  before  my  arrival.  I  did  not  want  to  claim  too  much  share 
in  the  old  gentleman's  private  affairs,  of  which  his  death  was 
surely  one.  I  added,  as  an  extenuating  circumstance,  that  he  was 
eighty-four ! 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  tell  Gracey  that,  little  Buttons?  It 
wasn't  your  fault,  anyhow!  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  it  wasn't.    But  that  doesn't  count." 

"What   does?" 


282  OLD  MAX'S  YOUTH 

"  Why — Goody  Walkinshaw.  She  counts.  It  wouldn't  be  any 
fun,  having  her  know.  As  soon  as  she's  bunked  it,  I'll  tell  them  all 
about  it."  I  believe  at  this  time  I  was  beginning  to  speak 
English  to  the  world  at  large,  but  I  retained  my  school-jargon 
in  intercourse  with  a  school-friend. 

"Why  wouldn't  it  be  any  fun,  having  her  know?" 

"  Because  she  makes  believe  she  knew  Gromp,  and  I  know  she 
didn't.  She'd  watercart." 

"  What  an  inexplicable  little  ass  you  are,  Buttons !  Suppose 
she  does  watercart." 

"Well— it's  rather  foolery,  isn't  it  now?"  But  I  felt  my  out- 
works weak.  "  I  vote  we  have  Gracey  back,  and  see  what  she 
says." 

Gracey  was  had  back — I  think  she  was  just  coming — and  she 
was  much  concerned,  on  my  account,  at  the  story  I  had  to  tell; 
but  the  fact  that  Mr.  Gromp  was  eighty-four  seemed  to  do  wonders 
in  the  way  of  palliating  it.  Besides,  Gracey  had  never  seen  the 
old  gentleman,  and  that  makes  all  the  difference.  She  and  Cooky 
talked  over  my  head,  morally,  as  they  always  did.  I  suppose  I 
was  very  young,  even  then. 

"  Look  here,  little  Buttons !  "  said  Cooky,  after  discussion  of 
the  point.  u  I  think  Gracey's  quite  right.  It  was  Mrs.  Walkinshaw 
who  wrote  to  Mr.  Gromp  for  you,  and  it's  only  your  fancy  that 
she  doesn't  really  know  him " 

I  interrupted.  "  lie  said  he  hadn't  seen  her  since  she  married, 
and  her  daughter's  elderly,  because  I've  seen  her." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  the  matter,  Jackey?"  said  Gracey. 
"  Suppose  in  fifty  years  Monty  was  to  die  suddenly  of  heart 
disease,  and  suppose  the  people  at  a  house  where  I  was  let  me 
see  his  death  next  day  in  the  papers !  .  .  .  Well — I  should  think 
them  beasts!  Shouldn't  you,  Monty?" 

"  If  it  was  the  other  way  round?  "  said  Cooky.    "  Yes — beasts!  " 

"  Very  well  then !  "  said  I.  "  Tell  the  Goody,  only  7  won't  come 
in.  She  won't  care.  Cut  along — tell  away!"  And  Gracey  went 
straight  off  to  the  drawing-room,  leaving  me  with  Cooky. 

His  face  looked  so  still  and  grave  it  might  have  been  marble 
fresh  from  the  completion  of  an  Assyrian  chisel.  "  Shall  we,  any 
of  us,  be  here  to  do  any  recollecting  in  fifty  years? "  said  he.  But 
we  left  speculation  on  this  point  to  listen  in  the  passage  to  as 
much  of  the  announcement  and  its  consequences  as  might  reach 
our  ears  outside. 

Gracey  had  evidently  sprung  the  main  fact  on  her  hearers  with- 
out reserve.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  almost  forgotten  acquaint- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  283 

ance  with  the  deceased  painter  apart,  there  was  no  reason  for  not 
doing  so.  What  we  could  hear  was  that  Gracey  spoke  on,  no  doubt 
giving  the  details  that  I  had  given ;  and  now  and  then  my  father's 
voice  struck  in,  or  my  stepmother's,  asking  a  question.  I  did  not 
hear  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  at  all.  Presently  my  father's  became 
more  insistent,  and  the  door-handle  was  audible.  He  was  coming 
out.  We  fell  back  into  the  dining-room,  but  when  he  said,  "  Where 
is  the  young  man  ? "  I  reappeared,  stating  superfluously  that  I 
was  there,  and  rationally  that  Cooky  also  was. 

"  Come  in  the  library  and  let's  hear  all  about  it,"  said  he.  We 
followed  him,  but  as  we  crossed  the  entrance-hall  I  saw  [Mrs. 
Walkinshaw  coming  from  the  drawing-room,  deprecating  my  step- 
mother's protests  against  an  early  departure,  made  Society-wise. 
I  could  not  forbear  lingering,  so  curious  was  I  to  hear — if  I  might 
do  so  in  ambush,  not  otherwise — what  attitude  the  good  lady 
would  take  up. 

It  seemed  that  her  gush  had  not  deserted  her.  "  My — dear — 
good — Helen !  "  said  she,  with  a  distinct  sing-song  to  each  word. 
"  I  ought  to  have  been  gone  ages  ago."  I  then  perceived  that 
this  and  the  protests  were  an  interlude,  and  also  thought  I  detected 
a  variant  of  the  speaker  in  the  way  she  resumed  some  previous 
serious  speech.  "  It  is  so  long — so  long  ago !  "  she  said.  "  I  had 
not  realized,  when  I  wrote  for  your  boy,  how  long.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
knew  it  was  fifty  years,  but — oh  dear! — you  understand." 

The  girls  were  behind,  in  the  drawing-room.  My  stepmother 
understood  perfectly,  or  said  she  did.  I  did  not.  She  then  said: — 
"  That  dear  silly  child  came  rushing  in  with  it  so  suddenly.  T 
don't  the  least  wonder."  Then  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  said : — "  I  don't 
think  it  made  much  difference.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  is  the  dear  boy 
himself ! "  From  my  hanging-back  had  caught  me,  and  I  had  to 
go  through  some  leave-taking.  It  took  the  form  of  commiseration 
tempered  with  congratulation,  or  vice  versa.  I  then  went  into 
the  library  and  gave  my  father  a  full  account  of  my  most  eventful 
day. 

I  catechized  Gracey  that  same  evening  as  to  the  way  in  which 
Goody  Walkinshaw  had  received  the  news  of  G romp's  death.  I  was 
moved  to  do  this  more  by  my  impression  that  that  lady  had  made 
an  unwarrantable  use  of  a  very  slight  acquaintance  with  the  old 
Academician,  than  from  any  conviction,  derived  from  the  few 
words  I  had  myself  overheard,  that  this  acquaintance  of  long  ago 
had  ever  amounted  to  such  a  friendship  as,  for  instance,  her  own 
and  Cooky's.  I  see  now  that  Gracey's  views  on  the  subject  were 
much  more  mature  than  my  own. 


284  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  I  say,  Gracey,"  said  I,  "  what  did  old  Walkey  say  when  you 
told  them?" 

"Let  me  see!"  said  Gracey,  mobilizing  conscientiousness  for 
narrative.  "  I  went  in  and  said  that  what  had  kept  you  late  was 
that  Mr.  Gromp  had  died  suddenly." 

"And  that  stopped  her  jaw?" 

"  Yes.  She  said : — '  Oh,  my  child !  What — Thomas  Gromp 
dead!'  Just  like  that!  " 

"  I  see.  Gaspily."  For  Gracey  had  indicated  breath  caught, 
as  by  surprise  or  alarm. 

"  We-ell,  if  you  like.  '  Gaspily  '  does.  Then  Aunt  Helen  said : — 
'Oh  dear!  And  you  knew  him  quite  well.'  Then  Mrs.  Walkin- 
shaw  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  nothing.  I  think  Papa  said : — 
'This  is  very  sad  news.  Was  Jackey  there?'  I  said  you  were 
there,  just  after,  and  he  said  where  were  you  now?  To  go  and 
talk  to  you,  you  know !  " 

"And  the  Goody?     What  did  she  say?" 

"  I  don't  think  a  word,  till  that  was  all  done.  Then  she  said  to 
Aunt  Helen,  ages  after  she  spoke: — 'Yes,  quite  well,  when  I  knew 
him.  But  I  was  quite  a  girl,  under  twenty.  It  is  all  such  ages 
ago.'  And  she  shut  her  eyes  and  sniffed  at  her  little  bottle  with 
the  gold  lid." 

"Didn't  she  say  anything  else?" 

"I  don't  remember  anything  else.  She  got  starchy  about  it, 
and  began  to  go.  She  talked  a  little  to  Aunt  Helen." 

"  For  you  not  to  listen  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  listen.    Only  I  knew  what  I  thought.    From  things." 

"  What  did  you  think?    What  things?  " 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"  The  same  as  before.  The  Goody  only  knew  him  just  enough 
to  write  to." 

"  Oh,  Jackey— don't  be  a  boy !    It  wasn't  that." 

"What  was  it  then?" 

"  I  lay  it  was  what  Miss  Gracey  says,"  said  Varnish,  who  was 
present.  We  were  in  fact  availing  ourselves  of  the  perfect  free- 
dom of  speech  that  was  normal  in  the  Reserve.  "  Miss  Gracey,  she 
knows,  and  you  may  just  shut  your  trap,  Squire!"  This  seemed 
severe  to  me,  as  Gracey  had  made  no  statement. 

I  certainly  expected  one  then.  But  none  came.  Each  of  them 
seemed  to  take  its  substance  for  granted,  and  to  think  I  might  be 
left  uninformed.  Gracey  said : — "  You  really  do  think  it  was  that, 
Varnish,  now  don't  you  ?  "  And  Varnish  replied : — "  I'm  your  way 
of  thinking,  Miss  Gracey." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  285 

I  imported  masculine  solidity  into  the  conversation — or  started 
confidently  on  doing  so — saying  trenchantly: — "What,  You,  Mean, 

Is — that  when  Mr.  Gromp  and  Walkey  were "    But  to  my  own 

surprise,  I  stopped  over  the  choice  of  a  word;  and  was  even  a  little 
relieved  when  Gracey  struck  in  with : — "  Yes,  that's  what  we  mean. 
Exactly  that."  But  none  of  us  put  into  words  the  thought  we 
accepted  unspoken,  that  these  two  old  people  had,  over  half-a- 
century  since,  been  lovers,  half-lovers,  quarter-lovers,  or — say — 
lovers  inchoate.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  was  when  Gracey 
said,  "  Of  course  they  were  not  engaged,"  and  Varnish  assented, 
"Law,  Miss  Gracey,  how  ever  could  they  be?  Him  an  artist, 
and  her  a  lady !  " 

I  never  knew  then  and  do  not  know  now,  whether  there  was  any 
truth  in  this  romance  that  for  some  reason  recommended  itself  to 
our  understandings.  I  think  I  see  daylight  about  the  way  we 
flinched  from  wording  it  coarsely.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  Power 
of  Decay.  I  can  imagine  now,  without  an  effort,  this  incident 
of  the  early  days  of  last  century — the  fresh  young  beauty  in  her 
Empire  dress,  gushing  with  enthusiasm,  Byron-stricken  no  doubt, 
quite  open  to  a  romantic  adoration  of  a  handsome  drawing-master, 
an  Artist — look  you — of  Genius,  no  common  drudge!  But  not  a 
young  damsel  likely  to  be  led  away  by  passion,  which  is  a  good 
servant  but  a  bad  master;  only  in  the  former  case  the  passion 
must  be  some  one  else's,  not  yours.  In  this  case,  as  I  fancy  the 
relations  of  these  two,  the  young  lady  may  have  combined  the 
luxury  of  a  romance,  including  that  of  being  the  victim  of  a  cruel 
and  heartless  world,  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  substantial  settle- 
ment in  life.  She  would  never,  at  least,  allow  her  handsome  im- 
pecunious drawing-master — ten  years  her  senior  too! — to  deceive 
himself  with  false  hopes.  But  for  all  that  she  may  have  given 
him  such  latitudes  in  friendship — always  subject  to  the  reservation 
that  he  was  not  to  hope  on  any  account — as  many  a  heartless 
minx  has  done  in  a  like  case.  She  may  have  created  a  situation 
which  would  qualify  them  to  be  torn  cruelly  apart,  and  may  have 
thoroughly  enjoyed  the  wrench.  He  for  his  part  may  have  derived 
little  consolation  from  a  romantic  grievance  even  if  he  nursed  it  to 
maturity.  Some  men  are  afflicted,  not  secretly  gratified,  with 
a  nursling  of  this  sort. 

However,  this  is  the  way  I  see  possibilities  now,  after  another 
sixty  years'  experience,  in  which  I  have  known  many  minxes  to 
become  hags.  It  was  that  incredibility  that  made  us  so  backward 
in  wording  a  story  in  which  Goody  Walkinshaw  had  to  figure  as 
the  heroine.  I  believe  that  Youth  can  never  image  the  youth  of 


286  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

its  grandsires,  can  never  really  think  of  its  grandmothers  as — to 
put  it  plainly — kissable.  Of  course,  says  Youth,  these  old  fogies 
had  a  kind  of  working  juvenility,  to  justify  the  fewness  of  their 
years;  but  that  was  their  old-fashioned  humbug.  They  were 
overshadowed  all  the  time  by  the  future-perfect  tense,  and  the 
gloom  of  their  senility  to  come  was  retrospective.  Look  at  the 
pictures  of  them!  Read  their  fiction — their  poems!  Old  fogies 
from  the  beginning,  incurable !  That  is  what  they  were.  While, 
on  the  other  hand  We  are  up-to-date.  .  .  . 

Dear  boy — dear  girl — you  are  quite  mistaken!  You  have  no 
intrinsic  newness  others  have  not  had  before,  each  in  his  turn, 
and  hers.  Fogeydom  of  old  was  Modern  too,  in  its  day,  and 
Bucks  and  Dandies  were  once  the  Last  Thing  Out;  even  as  Nuts, 
I  believe,  are  now.  I,  vanishing  at  last,  look  back  forgivingly,  al- 
most lovingly,  to  the  vacuous  fatuities  of  my  days  of  vacuum; 
the  then-new  slang  that  made  my  father  sick ;  the  area  of  incorrig- 
ible crinolines;  the  Piccadilly  streamers  of  the  swells,  and  their 
Noah's  Ark  overcoats.  And  they  have  grown  to  be  bywords  of 
scorn  to  you,  even  as  old  Walkinshaw's  claim  to  youth  in  days 
gone  by — albeit  she  might  be>  conceived  of  as  historically  young 
by  us,  pro  hac  vice — was  not  a  thing  to  be  spoken  without  a 
protest.  It  was  our  act  of  homage  to  the  Power  of  Decay.  The 
minx  had  become  a  hag. 

Strong  as  the  impression  was  that  I  received  at  the  old  man's 
death,  I  doubt  if  it  v.-ould  have  held  its  place  in  my  mind  as  it 
has  done — through  nearly  sixty  years;  think  of  it! — had  it  not 
been  for  that  parallel  that  Gracey  drew,  all  unconscious  of  its 
truth,  between  her  own  friendship  with  Cooky  Moss  and  the  one 
we  elected  to  impute  to  the  hag  and  the  octogenarian  painter. 
At  the  time  it  had  no  meaning  to  me — a  mere  illustration!  But 
ten  years  later,  reading  over  the  letters  from  Cooky  in  India,  that 
my  clear  sister  had  treasured  in  her  desk,  those  words  of  hers  came 
back  to  my  memory,  and  set  me  a-thinking  on  that  time;  and  then 
all  this  story  I  have  been  telling,  of  my  incipient  studentship  and 
the  death  of  old  Gromp — which  else  I  might  have  half  forgotten 
— was  renewed  so  vividly  that  it  took  well  hold  of  my  mind,  and 
the  many  years  that  have  followed  have  failed  to  deaden  it.  Could 
I  bear  to  read  those  letters  now,  if  I  had  them?  When  I  admit 
regret  for  all  the  things  lost  for  ever,  is  there  no  undercurrent  of 
relief  that  I  am  saved  from  the  deciphering  of  any  more  old  letters, 
and  the  pain  ?  I  have  nothing  now.  and  am  nothing,  except  for  a 
few  recollections  of  the  Past,  and  one  anticipation — the  grave. 
These  will  soon  vanish,  and  my  nothingness  will  be  complete. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  287 

I  think  that  I  was  indebted  to  that  married  niece  of  Gromp's 
for  a  little  cruel  push — quite  uncalled  for — into  the  abysm  of 
Fine  Art  that  awaited  me.  She  might  have  kept  herself  to  her- 
self, altogether;  or,  even  if  she  did  feel  bound  to  write  to  my  father 
to  thank  him,  as  my  proprietor  or  impresario,  for  my  activity  in 
communicating  the  sad  news  so  promptly,  she  need  not  have  in- 
vented a  perfectly  gratuitous  fiction  about  reports  that  had  reached 
her  of  her  late  uncle's  interest  in  my  "  genius."  The  woman  was 
a  liar — of  that  I  am  certain.  Was  I — her  letter  asked — the  clever 
boy  of  whose  promise  her  late  dear  uncle  had  so  often  spoken? 
I  knew  I  was  nothing  of  the  sort,  if  indeed  any  such  boy  existed. 
For  the  old  housekeeper,  in  accepting  my  offer  to  convey  the  news 
to  this  Mrs.  Harneck — I  think  that  was  the  name — had  said  her 
old  master  had  not  seen  his  niece  for  a  twelvemonth,  there  having 
been  words.  The  clever  boy's  father  did  not  analyze  this  far 
enough  to  see  that  what  her  dear  uncle  said,  if  indeed  he  ever 
said  anything  of  the  sort,  must  have  referred  to  some  other  boy, 
and  not  to  me. 

And  so  vanished  my  last  chance  of  not  being  a  professional 
Artist.  My  father's  feeble  opposition  to  my  wishes  had  to  dis- 
appear, though  I  do  not  believe  he  was  ever  fully  convinced ;  he 
was  far  too  sensible  for  that!  I  fancy  he  consoled  himself  with 
the  reflection  that  I  was  still  so  young,  that  a  year  or  so  spent  in 
demonstrating  my  incompetence  in  Art  could  be  well  spared,  and 
yet  leave  time  for  apprenticeship  to  some  honest  trade.  I  use 
this  phrase  because  I  am  firmly  convinced  that  the  trade  of  a 
"  Lutwyche  " — the  "  Painter  who  cannot  paint "  in  Browning's 
poem — is  the  trade  of  an  impostor;  and  that  if  he  does  not  become 
"  in  life  a  devil  more  than  a  saint,"  it  is  not  because  his  profes- 
sional conditions  and  surroundings  do  not  give  him  ample  oppor- 
tunities. My  recollection  is  well  supplied  with  dissolute  and 
vicious  units  who  made  up  for  sheer  incapacity,  or  strong  dis- 
position to  leave  off  work  at  the  point  at  which  difficult  begins, 
by  audacious  attitudinizing  and  wholesale  quackery.  The  wonder 
of  it  to  me  has  been  that  such  men  have  been  so  often  taken  at 
their  own  valuation,  and  have  been  worked  up  by  dealerdom, 
and  written  up  by  the  press,  until  any  attempt  to  accelerate  the 
natural  gravitation  of  their  "  work  "  towards  Oblivion  would  only 
cause  a  recrudescence  of  their  spurious  fame,  and  defeat  its  own 
object. 

I  was  not  qualified  for  a  mountebank  by  nature,  and  should 
never  have  scored  a  success  on  those  lines.     So  I  never  became 


288  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

a  Real  Artist.  But  let  me  get  back  to  my  story,  from  which 
these  reflections  are  a  departure. 

After  the  sudden  death  of  old  Mr.  Gromp  my  studentship  and 
professional  destiny  came  to  be  regarded  as  accomplished  facts. 
I  found  that  being  an  Artist  had  its  advantages.  Whatever  omis- 
sion I  was  guilty  of;  whatever  I  neglected,  whatever  laziness,  back- 
wardness, or  inefficiency  I  indulged  in,  was  excused  on  the  ground 
of  my  being  an  Artist.  I  came  down  late  in  the  morning.  Never 
mind! — I  was  an  Artist.  I  didn't  answer  when  spoken  to,  nor 
yet  listen  to  anything  that  was  said  to  me.  Well! — what  did  you 
expect,  of  an  Artist?  I  never  omitted  to  properly  brush  my  clothes, 
or  my  head,  or  to  say  what  I  wanted  sent  to  the  Wash,  or  to  put 
out  my  boots  to  black,  overnight,  reasonable;  or  was,  in  short, 
defective  in  any  particular,  but  it  was  pointed  out  that  such 
shortcoming  was,  or  had  been,  the  distinguishing  mark  and 
prominent  characteristic  of  Artists  from  all  time.  I  am  certain 
that  some  of  these  vices — the  specification  of  which  I  borrow  in 
many  cases  from  Varnish — were  not  new  departures  at  all,  but 
were  now  half-excused,  or  half-condemned,  by  imputing  them  to 
the  reaction  of  Zeuxis,  Apelles,  Titian,  and  Michelangelo,  on  one 
who  was,  after  all,  if  Varnish  was  to  be  credited,  only  a  Young 
Squire  and  easy  set  a  bad  example  to.  For  Varnish,  proud  as  she 
was  of  my  achievements,  very  soon  took  the  measure  of  some  of 
the  casuals  with  whom  I  made  acquaintance,  and  whom  I  accepted 
with  all  the  faults  and  errors  of  their  own  description  of  them- 
selves. I,  however,  did  not  quarrel  with  the  position  assigned  to 
me,  as  it  made  matters  easy.  I  afterwards  found  that  the  World- 
at-large  practises  a  similar  leniency  towards  any  one  who  poses 
successfully  as  a  Genius,  especially  if  he  has  selected  painting  as 
the  light  to  illuminate  his  species. 

I  often  wonder  how  men  have  succeeded  in  writing  the  story 
of  their  lives,  even  when  their  lives  have  had  a  story.  How  much 
harder  must  the  task  be  when  the  writer's  life,  like  mine,  has  no 
story — is  only  a  jumbled  phantasmagoria  of  miscellaneous  incident, 
a  mere  kaleidoscope — or  kakeidoscope  as  may  be — of  half-forgotten 
event.  Much  better  not  to  try  it,  but  to  put  down  what  you  recol- 
lect, and  ask  your  Self — is  it  true?  as  I  ask  mine.  You  will  not  get 
a  satisfactory  answer,  but  you  can  discharge  your  memory  of  its 
obligations  to  the  past. 

You  will  find  that  you  will  not  always  be  without  a  motive  in 
your  selection  of  things  to  recapture  from  Oblivion.  I  have  had  my 
motive  in  dwelling  so  much  on  this  story  of  my  adoption  of  a  pro- 
fession. I  have  wished  to  exonerate  my  father  from  my  own 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  289 

half -blame;  my  own  cavilling,  ill-concealed  from  my  Self,  at  his 
irresolute  attitude.  But  if  I  have  told  the  tale  truly,  what  could 
he  have  done,  without  running  counter  to  his  affection  for  his 
son,  with  very  poor  support  from  the  only  advisers  that  presented 
themselves?  He  was  mistaken,  certainly,  in  supposing  that  a 
profession,  once  chosen,  could  be  lightly  put  aside  for  another. 
But  the  supposition  is  not  one  in  itself  unreasonable.  It  is  a 
point  that  nothing  can  decide  but  experience. 

I  suppose  my  father  must  have  treasured  in  his  heart  this  belief 
in  a  possible  correction  by  Fate  of  her  blunder  in  my  case,  or  he 
would  have  shown  more  uneasiness  about  my  future.  As  it  was, 
he  accepted  the  obvious  fact — which  came  to  light  as  Time  went 
on — that  my  Academy  education  led  nowhere,  with  a  sort  of  good- 
humoured  fatalism,  making  no  effort  to  change  the  venue  of  my 
development  for  one  where  it  would  be  more  obvious  to  the  igno- 
ramus he  claimed  to  be,  that  I  was  really  learning  my  trade.  I 
can  see  now  that  nothing  else  was  open  to  him.  There  was  no 
school  of  Art,  or  at  least  none  offered  itself.  I  have  long  dis- 
believed in  any  form  of  education  in  painting  except  the  old  one — 
work  done  in  a  Master's  workshop,  the  pupil  doing  the  easy  bits 
at  first  to  save  the  Master  mere  drudgery,  and  then,  if  a  pains- 
taking chap,  being  allowed  to  do  a  hand,  and  so  on,  till  at  last 
one  day — such  a  proud  one! — he  would  be  permitted  to  do  an 
easy  head,  in  a  corner,  and  finally  be  given  a  canvas  all  to  himself. 

But  there  was  no  Hubert  Van  Eyck  for  me  to  play  John  to. 
If  there  had  been,  I  am  sure  my  father  would  have  said  to  him : — 
"  Dear  Herr  Van  Eyck,  my  boy  wants  to  learn  painting.  Would 
you  let  him  have  a  canvas  and  paint  a  lily  exactly  like  you  are 
doing  now,  and  watch  you  do  yours  all  the  time?  Because  you  do  it 
so  well,  and  what  you  have  done  looks  finished.  Do,  please,  and 
I  will  give  you  guelders."  But  any  good  painter  of  my  day — 
there  were  a  good  many — would  only  have  answered : — "  Oh  bother ! 
Send  him  to  the  Koyal  Academy."  So,  whatever  samples  of  my 
work  I  brought  home  from  Trafalgar  Square  my  father  surveyed 
them,  made  some  good-humoured  remark,  and  acquiesced  in  them, 
as  things  outside  his  sphere,  with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do.  I 
discerned  in  this,  that  there  were  hard  and  fast  lines  separating 
those  who  understood  Art  from  those  who  did  not,  and  that  I  was 
on  this  side,  he  on  that. 

I  suppose  it  was  at  Slocum's,  in  some  interval  of  the  Academy 
schools,  that  I  began  to  study  the  use  of  oil-paint.  I  did  it  at 
the  expense  of  a  ginger-beer  bottle,  a  water-melon,  two  tomatoes, 
and  a  rabbit,  which  would  have  answered  to  the  description  of 


290  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Still  Life  "  better  if  the  rabbit,  which  presently  showed  signs  of 
active  mortality,  could  have  'eld  on  only  just  long  enough  for  the 
second  painting  to  'arden,  and  give  a  chance  to  glaze  it  up.  I  am 
accepting  the  terse  and  expressive  statement  of  'Opkins.  The  work 
was  done  at  a  disadvantage — he  rightly  said — because  when  your 
principal  object  is  took  out  of  the  group,  you  lose  the  feelin'. 
Also,  in  my  own  case,  because  borrowed  easels  are  not  to  be  relied 
on.  Mine  wound  up  and  down  quite  beautiful,  but  it  had  evidently 
once  been  disintegrated,  and  its  reconstructor  had  contrived  to 
leave  a  slot  in  its  shelf,  platform — or  bosom,  if  you  like  to  call  it 
so — admirably  suited  for  your  Academy  Board  to  disappear  down 
suddenly,  just  when  there  was  no  more  light  to  go  over  the  bad 
places  while  still  wet.  This  happened,  and  I  was  only  revived  from 
despair  when  I  succeeded  in  adding  two  big,  handsome  drops  of 
water  to  the  tomatoes,  and  a  blue-bottle  with-  a  shadow  to  the 
watermelon.  They  were  Naturalism.  But  what  ever  can  you 
expect,  when  it's  Still  Life? 

I  was  afraid  to  carry  this  result  of  tuition  to  show  my  father. 
But  Gracey  did,  heralding  it  with  praise.  It  had  quite  set  at  rest 
a  doubt  Varnish  had  expressed  more  fearlessly  than  the  others  of 
my  family,  as  to  whether  I  had  the  power  to  do  colours.  After 
such  a  ginger-beer  bottle  all  hesitation  must  vanish.  The  work, 
however,  had  a  less  intoxicating  effect  on  my  father  than  I  think 
Gracey  anticipated.  Indeed,  his  attention  was  diverted  from  its 
value,  as  a. Work  of  Art,  by  its  smell. 

"  That's  nothing,''  said  I.    "  Hopkins  says  it  goes,  if  you  wait." 

"  I'm  afraid  we've  no  choice,  in  the  nature  of  things,"  said 
my  father,  with  resignation.  "  Well — it's  very  good.  I  can  see 
what  everything  is,  without  telling;  and  I  can't  say  as  much,  for 
some  pictures.  That's  a  dead  rabbit.  That's  a  melon.  Those  are 
tomatoes,  and  that  and  that  are  water-drops." 

"  You  mustn't  touch!  "  said  Gracey,  as  one  who  knew  the  rules 
of  the  game. 

"  Touching  doesn't  matter,"  said  I,  as  one  better  informed. 

My  father,  having  my  authority,  touched  again.  "  I  took  him. for 
a  real  fly,"  said  he,  "  and  he's  painted.  Well — there  we  are,  you 
see!  Jackey's  Zeuxis,  and  I'm  the  dickeybirds,  and  the  fly's  the 
grapes." 

l<  There  now! "  cried  Gracey,  triumphantly.  "  See  how  well  it's 
done,  to  take  you  in  like  that.  Here's  Aunt  Helen  coming.  See 
what  she  says!"  My  stepmother  was  just  coming  in  from 
Thomas's  brougham.  She  had  been  visiting  her  Circle,  with  Ellen. 
"  Oh  dear ! — how  sick  I  am  of  People !  "  said  she.  "  What — another 
picture ! " 


291 

"  Show  it  to  your  stepmamma,  Jackey."  A  pause  ensued  for 
critical  inspection,  the  sort  that  is  done  at  different  distances, 
with  the  head  in  varied  attitudes.  "  Well — what's  the  verdict '.  " 

"  Why — ee — a !  "  said  Jemima,  whose  interjection  I  cannot  spell 
otherwise.  u  One  doesn't  like  to " 

"  To  what?     What  doesn't  one  like  to?" 

"  To  say.''  She  kept  her  handsome  head  in  its  position  to  add 
in  a  matter-of-fact,  convincing  sort  of  way: — "Of  course  one 
doesn't  look  at  these  things  from  a " 

"  From  a  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  know  what  I  mean."  My  father  evidently 

did  not.  "  It  isn't  exactly  the  same  thing  as  if  it  were "  But 

she  didn't  finish  her  sentence.  Instead,  she  suddenly  became  re- 
assuring. "But  it's  very  good  indeed!  Really,  very,  nice!"  She 
tried  it  for  a  moment  with  her  head  the  other  way  on,  so  as  to 
see  every  aspect  of  the  composition,  and  be  sure  she  was  right; 
then  wound  up  the  subject.  "  Yes,  it's  very  nice,  Jackey — very  good 
indeed!  .  .  .  My  dear,  those  tiresome  Elginbrods  have  asked  us 
to  dinner  on  the  fourteenth  and  we  can't  go.  And  now  we  shall 
have  to  ask  them." 

I  can't  really  recollect  what  Ellen  said,  but  I  find  that  If  I,  so 
to  speak,  listen  to  my  recollection  of  her,  it  seems  to  say : — "  It's 
uo  use  asking  me,  because  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I 
never  did  know,  and  I  never  shall  know  anything  about  pictures. 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  it's  landscape  or  figures,  it's  simply  no 
use.  It's  only  wasting  time.  I  daresay  it's  my  fault  and  I  ought 

to  know "  And  so  forth.  Ellen  always  seemed  much  concerned 

at  her  own  useleseness  as  a  referee,  and  to  conceive  that  Europe 
looked  to  her  for  enlightenment. 

"  Never  mind;'  said  Gracey.  "  Come  along,  Jackey,  and  we'll 
show  it  to  Varnish."  And  off  we  went  to  Varnish,  in  the  Reserve. 
Because  there  was  plenty  of  time  before  dinner.  My  old  nurse's 
heartfelt  approbation  more  than  consoled  me  for  the  rather  cold 
approval  this  work  of  Art  had  received  from  my  stepmother. 

Many  things  happened,  I  know,  before  my  successful  career  as 
a  '*  student  from  the  Antique  "  landed  me  in  the  higher  level  of 
admission  to  the  Life  School.  But  the  revived  smell  of  the  new 
paint  on  that  execrable  Academy  Board  brings  back  so  vividly  my 
first  experiences  of  what  'Opkins — neck  and  neck  with  me  in  our 
upward  career — called  moddles,  in  the  painting  school,  that  I  am 
carried  on  to  write  my  recollections  of  it  while  I  have  them, 
although  by  doing  so  I  outrun  all  consecutiveness  such  as  would 
be  claimed  by  a  real  life-record  of  reminiscences. 


292  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

At  this  moment  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  it  all  comes  before  me, 
as  yesterday.  There  is  the  pose,  a  real  Turk  with  teste  'Opkins. — 
a  reg'lar  strikin'  'ed  and  no  mistake.  There  also,  absolutely  with- 
out any  mistake  whatever,  is  the  fixed  glare  which  I  afterwards 
learned  to  identify  with  the  first  release  of  a  inoddle  from  the 
leash — perhaps  that  expression  is  faulty — and  which  I  was  destined, 
more  often  than  not,  to  see  die  slowly  away  before  the  irresistible 
inroads  of  Sleep.  There  is  the  Visitor,  who  is  going  presently. 
I  hope,  to  show  me,  at  any  rate,  exactly  how  he  paints  himself. 
And  there  are  my  fellow-students  carrying  about  their  easels — 
reminding  me  a  little  of  the  way  ants  carry  about  their  eggs — to 
plant  them  down  in  the  best  possible  point  of  view.  I  am  con- 
scious, as  I  allow  the  vision  to  proceed,  that  the  energetic  decision 
shown  in  the  choice  of  place  and  the  disposition  of  materials  flags 
as  soon  as  the  first  indications  of  the  great  work  in  hand  have  to 
be  made.  Then  do  vague  charcoal  marks  appear  irresolutely  on 
new  canvasses,  and  supply  food  for  infinite  reflection  and  com- 
parison to  their  authors.  Then  do  the  said  authors  resolve  sud- 
denly to  wipe  out  what  they  have  begun,  and  do  it  fresh  a  little 
higher  up.  Because,  as  'Opkins  said : — "  You  can't  be  too  ackerate 
at  the  first  go  off." 

Then  one  singles  himself  out  from  the  multitude;  the  same 
who  had  taken  exception  to  the  chronology  of  'Opkins,  about  the 
date  of  Fuseli's  death.  He  has  provided  himself  with  a  three- 
legged  easel  whose  two  forelegs  have  to  be  dealt  with  cautiously; 
or  else,  out  they  come!  'Opkins  breathed  this  fact  when  its  bor- 
rower— whose  name  he  pronounced  'Untley — substituted  it  for  his 
own,  which  had  got  broke  somehow.  Moreover,  the  hinge  waggled, 
on  this  easel.  So  it  is  no  wonder  my  vision  shows  him  to  me 
endeavouring  simultaneously  to  hold  its  wandering  limbs  together, 
and  to  get  in  the  Turk's  head  ackerate.  I  see  him  endeavouring 
also  to  avail  himself  of  the  qualities  of  a  new  mahl-stick,  with 
the,  result  that  the  left-hand  bottom  corner  of  his  canvas  flies  up 
and  strikes  his  nose.  No  one  who  has  ever  tried  to  work  on  a  three- 
legged  easel,  with  a  large  canvas,  will  need  an  explanation  of  this. 

One  thing  I  do  not  see,  try  how  I  may.  I  see  no  attempt  to 
show  ignorance  how  to  use  its  materials.  If  any  one  of  my  in- 
structors knew  how  to  paint,  in  the  sense  in  which  painting  was 
known  three  centuries  ago,  he  kept  his  knowledge  secret.  If  one 
of  them  had  but  said  to  me,  "  You  must  know  quite  distinctly  what 
you  want  to  paint;  then  you  must  make  the  outline  perfectly 
right;  then  you  must  colour  it,"  I  think  I  should  not  have  been 
so  much  at  sea  as  I  soon  became  under  the  plethora  of  vague 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  293 

suggestions  of  ways  to  do  God  knows  what,  God  knows  how.  I 
tried  with  solemn  earnestness  to  paint  a  face  with  Indian  Red  and 
Ivory  Black  at  the  bidding  of  the  first  Visitor;  with  all  the  pig- 
ments my  assortment  yielded,  at  the  bidding  of  the  second;  and  on 
an  underpainting  of  Prussian  Blue  at  the  suggestion  of  the  third. 
I  was  not  directed  to  resort  to  this  last  diabolical  performance, 
but  its  advocate  recommended  it  as  a  safe  and  certain  way — the 
only  one — to  get  brilliancy  in  flesh.  Of  course  that  was  what  I 
wanted — to  get  brilliancy.  And,  equally  of  course,  I  didn't  get 
it. 

All  these  methods,  be  it  observed,  were  advanced  as  the  only 
sound  practices  of  Art  after  I  had  involved  myself  in  a  pasty 
confusion  Titian  himself  could  not  have  remedied.  Never  did 
one  of  my  guides  say  to  me,  "  I  see  you  don't  know  how  to  paint. 
Let  me  show  you !  "  before  I  had  completely  destroyed  all  possi- 
bility of  guidance,  even  by  a  Vandyck  or  Reynolds.  Each  of  them 
waited,  I  suppose,  to  see  the  direction  my  hopelessness  was  going 
to  take,  before  offering  any  suggestion.  When  one  came,  it 
seemed  to  me  to  have  very  little  bearing  on  my  particular  difficul- 
ties. It  usually  took  the  form : — "  What  have  you  got  on  your 
palette?  Where's  your  yellow  ochre;  light  red,  raw  umber,  cobalt 
blue,  etc.?  You  can't  expect  to  paint" — this,  that,  or  the  other  of 
these.  I  proceeded  to  expect  to  paint  with  them,  and  cleaned  up 
an  area  to  receive  them  on  my  palette.  Disappointment  awaited 
me. 

The  funny  part  of  the  thing — to  me,  now — is  that  I  never  once 
seem  to  have  asked  myself: — "What  is  all  this  for?"  I  have 
certainly  since  then  seen  reason  to  suspect  that  there  is  a  diseased 
frame  of  mind  which  regards  Education  as  a  thing  beneficial 
per  se,  without  any  reference  to  its  objects.  In  no  one  is  this 
more  discernible  than  in  the  advanced  Art-student  whose  beauti- 
ful humility  of  character  binds  him  at  the  feet  of  an  instructor, 
who  teaches  him  nothing  whatever,  but  graciously  allows  him  to 
go  on  working  indefinitely  in  a  mist.  "  Ancora  imparo  "  is  a  very 
pretty  sentiment  for  every  time  of  life,  but  the  motto  of  Michel- 
angelo's old  man  in  a  go-cart  meant : — "  Much  as  I  know,  do  not 
suppose  that  I  think  I  am  omniscient!  "  It  did  not  mean : — "  I  am 
not  a  penny  the  wiser  for  anything  I  have  ever  learned,  but  I  mean 
to  go  on  learning  it  for  all  that."  As  I  understand,  the  general 
tenor  of  instruction  is,  while  leaving  the  student  to  flounder  in  any 
and  every  mire  of  his  own  selection,  to  discourage  excursions  that 
tend  to  disconnect  that  student  from  his  alma  mater,  who.  left  to 
herself,  would  never  wean  him.  Though  really  the  metaphor  of 


294  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

bringing  the  alumnus  up  by  bottle  would  be  a  much  truer  one 
in  the  case  of  the  Art-student,  to  judge  by  my  own  experience. 

However,  it  is  likely  enough  that  it  was  my  own  airy  self-confi- 
dence and  youthful  conceit  that  discouraged  my  seniors'  attempts 
to  teach  me  how  to  paint.  If  not.  .  .  .  But  my  pen — or  pencil 
— flinches  from  the  surmise  that  perhaps  they  did  not  know,  them- 
selves 

I  have  sometimes  irreverently  indulged  in  the  fancy  that  when 
a  teacher's  salary  is  co-ordinate  with  the  number  of  his  pupils, 
he  is  thereby  supplied  with  a  temptation  to  prolong  their  pupilage. 
But  the  theory  won't  wash,  in  all  cases.  The  interest  of  the  'Varsity 
coach  is  to  get  the  biggest  score  of  new  graduates  anyhow,  high 
up  on  the  lists  if  possible.  He  would  sooner  have  half-a-dozen  new 
cram-pots,  and  pass  them  all,  than  the  chance  of  one  lasting  six 
years — a  creature  whose  power  of  converting  information  into 
ignorance  was  so  prompt  that  he  would  not  wait  for  it  to  serve 
its  turn  till  after  an  examination.  Bland  misinformation,  craftily 
administered  to  assure  the  ploughing  of  its  recipient,  would  only 
condemn  his  coach,  and  cause  the  parents  and  guardians  of  other 
alumni  to  apply  elsewhere.  I  gathered  also,  in  the  years  that  pre- 
ceded my  retirement,  that  the  masters  of  Government  Art-Schools 
look  to  the  number  of  successful  prizeholders  at  the  Annual  Com- 
petitions as  the  criterion  of  their  success.  And  so  heartfelt  is  this 
incentive  to  instruction,  that  the  transfer  of  a  master  of  a  school 
premiated  in  his  consulship,  to  boiling  point,  has  resulted  in  its 
sudden  degringolade  to  zero. 

Another  educational  motive  is  said  to  influence  the  granting 
of  qualifications  for  practice  to  students  of  medicine  and  surgery, 
and — supposing  it  to  exist,  I  vouch  for  nothing — it  is  an  entirely 
noble  one.  The  man  of  real  capacity  is  open  to  a  splendid  maturity 
of  practice  in  the  Hospitals,  while  the  duffer  only  gets  in  the  way, 
and  learns  nothing.  lie  will  never  improve,  so  he  may  as  well  be 
turned  loose  on  the  public  at  once,  while  he  is  still  such  a  trans- 
parent impostor  that  no  reasonable  person  will  ever  show  him  his 
tongue.  Therefore,  pluck  all  the  good  men,  and  qualify  mediocrity, 
or — if  the  level  of  intelligence  be  low — cretinism.  The  examiner  is 
in  either  case  entitled  to  the  gratitude  of  his  species,  though 
scarcely  so  much  so  as  if  he  were  to  refuse  to  grant  any  licences 
to  practise  at  all. 

On  the  whole,  I  don't  think  this  theory  of  prolonged  pupil- 
age holds  good  in  any  case  so  strongly  as  in  the  "  training  "  of  a 
singer's  voice.  Is  any  case  known  of  a  voice-trainer  who  has 
admitted  the  maturity  of  his  pupil's,  so  long  as  it  was  prepared  to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  295 

yield  him  ten  shillings  a  lesson?  I  look  rather,  in  my  desire  to 
get  at  the  mystery  of  the  artistic  chrysalis,  the  student-grub  that 
never  becomes  a  butterfly,  to  the  fact  that  an  inexplicable  desire 
to  be  an  Artist  and  have  a  Studio  is  compatible  with  an  unfitness 
for  that  employment  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  reconcile  a 
priori  with  one's  estimate  of  the  average  capacity  of  mankind. 
Add  to  this  an  epidemic  humility — I  suppose  it  to  date  back  to 
Ruskin — prompting  the  enthusiast  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Nature 
and  humbly  imbibe  wisdom  from  Authority,  and  the  rationale 
of  the  Art-student  whose  study  never  ends  is  not  so  very  far  to 
seek. 

This  is  all  speculation  by  the  way.  For  I  was  much  too  con- 
ceited and  impatient  to  acquiesce  in  such  a  role  of  life,  and  I  was 
not  destined  to  become  either  a  dumb  waiter  for  an  artistic  de- 
velop:nent  that  never  came  about,  or  to  utilize  my  incapacity  in 
painting,  as  the  stock-in-trade  of  a  mountebank.  Had  my  father 
lived  long  enough,  his  indulgence  might  have  enabled  me  to  carry 
out  the  former  ideal,  while  his  instinctive  revolt  against  all  dis- 
honesty would  have  kept  the  latter  in  check.  Of  the  two,  I  con- 
fess that  I  incline  to  the  dishonesty.  It  must  be  such  fun,  cheating 
fools !  And  after  all,  when  we  condemn  a  professional  charlatan, 
are  we  not  blaming  him  for  the  simplicity  of  his  dupes,  for  which 
we  really  have  no  warrant  for  holding  him  responsible  ?  ''  Why 
slate  me,"  said  a  well-known  practitioner,  "because  Croesus  likes 
a  sketch  of  mine  better  than  five  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and 
I  like  five  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  better  than  my  sketch  ?  I've 
told  him  candidly  that  I  wouldn't  have  it  as  a  gift."  Had  he  been 
bound  to  add  to  this  piece  of  candour  that  he  had  just  had  an  offer 
of  five  hundred  for  the  gem  in  question?  That  was  how  he  had 
landed  Croesus.  And  after  all,  was  Croesus  any  the  worse  ?  For 
Mr.  Stowe,  who  told  this  story,  did  it  apropos  of  Croesus  having 
resold  his  prize  for  twelve  hundred.  My  father  was  a  purist  in 
these  matters,  at  least,  he  drew  a  line.  "  I  think  I  should  like 
burglary,"  said  he,  *'  but  not  that  sort  of  thing."  Mr.  Stowe  de- 
precated his  severity,  and  said  that  if  there  was  to  be  no  cheating, 
it  would  make  life  very  dull.  It  may  be  he  was  right.  However, 
my  father  never  said  cheating  fools  would  not  be  fun.  He  only 
compared  its  attractions  with  those  of  burglary. 

This  subject  of  Art  has  made  me  diffuse.  It  has  that  effect  on 
writers.  I  must  try  to  get  back  to  my  story.  For  all  this  is 
as  much  what  I  think,  as  what  I  remember.  What  I  have  promised 
my  Self,  is  to  put  on  record  as  much  as  we  can  recollect,  be- 
tween us. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  RACK  my  brain  in  vain  sometimes  to  fix  a  date,  and  always 
end  by  finding  that  I  am  wrong.  Now  and  then  I  can  catch  at 
contemporaneous  incidents,  and  then  my  memory  works  the 
steadier  for  a  while.  It  helps  me  now  to  remember  that  that  year, 
in  the  Autumn  of  which  I  became  an  Academy  Student,  was  the 
year  of  the  Indian  Mutiny.  Or,  should  I  say,  the  year  of  its 
outbreak?  For  certainly  my  recollection  is  that  it  was  not  sup- 
pressed till  two  years  later. 

I  can  distinctly  recollect  that  my  stepmother  interrupted  a 
description  I  was  giving  to  my  father  of  Slocum's  and  my  ex- 
perience of  the  Antique,  to  say: — <k  What's  all  this  about  the  native 
troops  in  India,  Mr.  Pascoe?  "  I  don't  think  she  ever  quite  gave  up 
addressing  him  by  this  name.  It  was  the  one  she  had  known  him 
by  for  so  long,  and  of  course  it  seemed  the  right  one  to  us  young 
folks. 

"  \Vh-afs  all  that  about  the  native  troops,  Mrs.  P.,"  said  he, 
asking  the  question  back  again.  He  then  went  on  with  what  he 
was  saying  to  me: — "And  what  did  the  old  gypsy  woman  say  to 
Mr.  Slocum?" 

"  Old  Esther?  She  called  him  darling,  and  said  a  dark  lady 
was  waiting  for  him,  but  she  couldn't  tell  him  where,  under  ten 
shillings.  He  said  what  had  she  had  to  drink.  Because  she 
wasn't  sitting."  That  is  to  say,  she  wasn't  sitting  still.  I  remem- 
ber her  very  well.  She  was  a  glorious  sight  with  her  white  hair 
and  wrinkles,  but  her  ideas  of  remuneration  became  excessive  when 
she  was  excited  with  alcohol.  "  She  says  she's  the  Queen  of  the 
Gypsies,  and " 

Jemima  interrupted  me.  "  The  native  troops  at  ...  Where 
is  it?  .  .  .  Meerut.  They  won't  bite  greasy  cartridges " 

"  Well — no  more  would  I !  "  said  my  father. 

"  It  isn't  that.    It's  because  of  Religion.    Look  at  the  paper." 

My  father  took  the  Times,  and  looked  at  the  text  in  a  very 
perfunctory  way.  "  I  saw  something  of  that  before,"  said  he, 
absently.  And  then  he  read  it  over  again,  and  handed  back  the 
paper  to  Jemima,  saying : — "  We  shall  have  to  make  short  work  of 

296 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  297 

that!  "  She  took  the  paper,  and  I  think  read  the  births,  marriages, 
and  deaths.  I  suppose  this  piece  of  news  reached  tens  of  thousands 
of  homes  that  day,  and  about  the  same  amount  of  attention  was 
given  to  it. 

How  little  we  knew  what  was  coming!  I  think  we  all  believed 
that  this  outbreak — which  I  suppose  to  have  been  the  first  incident 
of  the  insurrection,  at  Meerut — would  make  it  just  worth  while 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  Indian  news  for  the  next  week  or  so,  lest  we 
should  miss  the  account  of  its  prompt  suppression,  and  preferably 
the  severe  attitude  of  European  justice  towards  the  ringleaders. 

Another  incident  fixes  the  date.  The  news  of  the  taking  of 
Jhansi  by  Sir  Hugh  Rose,  which  we  all  had  such  sad  cause  to 
remember,  must  have  antedated  by  a  very  little  the  appointment 
of  the  first  Jewish  Queen's  Counsel  on  record.  I  can  recall 
Gracey's  words  to  me  when  we  read,  some  time  later,  a  reference  to 
the  appointment  in  a  newspaper: — "Oh,  Jackey  dearest,  had  he 
never  gone  into  the  Army,  he  might  have  made  his  way  at  the 
Bar,  and  we  should  have  him  now !  "  For  Cooky  had  justified  a 
revolt  against  his  family's  wish  that  he  should  become  a  lawyer, 
by  citing  the  disqualifications  under  which  his  race  then  suffered 
in  the  prosecution  of  a  legal  career,  as  a  reason  for  adopting  one 
in  which  apparently  the  obstacles  were  not  insuperable.  I  have 
never  been  satisfied  that  this  was  really  the  case,  and  indeed  suspect 
that  he  made  the  most  of  his  plea  because  of  his  strong  predilec- 
tion for  the  Army.  I  have  no  means  of  determining  this  now, 
without  risking  inquiries  as  to  my  reasons  for  asking  the  question. 
My  informant  would  catechize  me.  But  it  does  not  matter,  as  the 
date  is  clear  from  what  I  remember.  It  was  revived  for  me 
recently  by  a  press  article  about  the  Jews  nowadays,  which  gave 
the  date  of  the  Q.  C.  above-mentioned  as  June,  '58.  Gracey's  re- 
mark was  of  course  made  afterwards;  as,  though  the  events  came 
near  together,  the  casualties  of  Jhansi  were  not  known  in  England 
till  some  two  months  later. 

I  find  that  putting  these  things  on  paper  stimulates  memory; 
otherwise  they  are  in  themselves  immaterial.  7  know  perfectly 
well  what  sent  Cooky  soldiering — his  temperament,  and  the  atroci- 
ties of  Cawnpore.  I  can  remember,  when  the  news  of  these  horrors 
reached  England,  how  my  father  sat  reading  the  Times  account  of 
them  with  knitted  brow,  bitten  lip,  and  exclamation  smothered 
back,  until  at  last  he  threw  down  the  -paper,  saying : — "  There !  I 
can't  read  that  aloud.  You  must  read  it  to  yourself."  For  my 
stepmother  had  said  to  him,  noting  his  concentration : — "  Some- 
thing very  absorbing?  Give  us  the  benefit  of  it."  Then  that  she 


298  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

monopolized  the  paper  through  two  readings,  in  the  end  throwing 
it  away,  to  be  scrambled  for  by  eagerness  on  the  watch  with  the 
remark  which  I  now  see  to  have  been  a  sort  of  bravado — not 
callousness  or  hardness  of  heart : — "  Well — all  I  can  say  is,  that  if 
\.Tomen  marry  soldiers,  and  follow  them  into  such  outlandish  places, 
they  must  just  take  their  chance!  "  It  sounded  brutal,  but  I  can- 
not believe  that  it  was  really  so.  For  I  have  never  thought  any 
worse  of  Jemima  than  that  she  was  somewhat  vain  and  selfish. 
She  was  certainly  not  in  her  right  place  as  the  wife  of  a  man  like 
my  father,  with  whom  she  was — or  seemed  to  me — unsympathetic 
to  a  degree;  but  not  a  bad  creature  in  the  main  for  all  that. 

We  others — that  is  to  say,  Gracey,  Cooky,  and  myself — seized 
upon  that  newspaper  and  read  the  hideous  tale  conjointly.  "  Oh, 
Monty !  "  said  Gracey,  looking  up  from  it  at  the  dark  eyes  fixed 
upon  it  over  her  shoulder.  "  Can  it  be  true  ? "  For  she  was  in 
possession,  and  he  and  I  were  reading  it  aslant,  on  either  side. 

He  did  not  answer  the  question  directly,  though  his  manner 
did.  "  I  should  like  to  be  there,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  caught 
to  say  it.  His  set,  white  face  showed  me  how  strongly  the  news 
had  affected  him. 

"  But  is  it  true?  "  said  she  again. 

He  recovered  his  normal  self-command,  to  say: — "Ask  your 
father  what  he  thinks."  And  then  anticipated  her.  "  Mr.  Pascoe ! 
Gracey  says — is  it  true  ? " 

My  father  filled  out  the  formula  bad  news  calls  for.  "  No  doubt 
very  much  exaggerated,"  said  he.  Then,  as  if  he  felt  he  had  done 
his  duty  by  prescribed  usage : — "  Well — at  least  we  must  hope 
that  some  of  it  is  false.  It  sounds  a  little  too  Biblical  for  nowa- 
days— eh,  Nebuchadnezzar?" 

'•  It's  Biblical  all  over,"  said  Cooky.  Whereupon  Ellen,  who  had 
acquired  a  partial  knowledge  of  the  matter  in  hand,  but  had  not 
had  time  to  digest  it,  recognized  a  heterodox  tone  in  a  mere  refer- 
ence to  Scripture,  and  said : — "  If  you're  going  to  talk  like  that,  I 
shall  go."  I  think  she  went,  nem:  con:. 

I  think  also  my  father  departed,  with  Jemima.  Anyhow,  the 
Club  was  left  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  Thereupon  said 
Gracey : — "  What  did  you  mean  by  saying  you  would  like  to  be 
there?" 

"  Only  what  I  said.  I  should  like  to  be  there.  When  it's — this 
sort  of  thing,  one  would  rather  be  there,  not  here.  Wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  could  do  no  good." 

Cooky  clenched  his  brow  for  a  second — that  describes  it — as 
well  as  his  teeth;  then  said: — "  I  could  do  some  good.  I  could  but 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  299 

try.  Besides — you  know,  because  I  told  you — I  would  sooner  be 
a  soldier,  and  die,  than  be  a  Sunday  citizen  in  wartime,  and 
live.  .  .  .  All  right,  she's  gone."  For  alarm  had  flashed  across 
Gracey's  face,  lest  this  very  indirect  reference  to  the  blessed  Sab- 
bath should  be  taken  amiss  by  Ellen,  whose  departure  she  had  not 
noticed. 

"  But  you  can't,  Monty,"  said  she.  "  You're  a  Jew.  Jews  can't 
be  soldiers.  I'm  so  glad." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  can't  because  I'm  a  Jew  ? "  said  Monty. 
And  as  Gracey  really  had  no  information  on  the  point,  and  I  had 
none,  the  question  had  to  be  left  without  an  answer.  Perhaps  the 
strong  conviction  we  shared  on  the  subject  was  only  the  reaction 
of  an  all-pervading  belief  in  Jewish  Disability  all  round,  inherited 
from  centuries  of  religious  intolerance — almost  forgotten  nowa- 
days, but  still  active  in  the  fifties.  It  was  safe  then  to  assume 
tiny  disqualification  for  a  Hebrew,  until  the  contrary  was  proved. 

I  raised  the  question  again  later,  in  private  conversation  with 
Cooky,  saying  that  I  believed  Gracey's  view  to  be  sound,  and 
indeed  obviously  so,  for  some  mysterious  reason  not  easy  to  formu- 
late. He  replied: — ''You're  both  wrong,  little  Buttons,  and  I'm 
right.  Anyhow,  if  he  puts  his  religion  in  his  pocket  a  Jew  can 
be  anything  he  likes — Pope  of  Rome  or  Lord  Chancellor." 

"But  would  you ?" 

"Put  my  religion  in  my  pocket?  Not  for  anything  but  to  be 
a  soldier.  And  even  then  I  would  keep  it  in  my  pocket,  buttoned 
up.  Why  shouldn't  I?"  It  was  then  that  I  began  to  be  uneasy 
about  the  lengths  to  which  this  diseased  spirit  of  Chivalry — that 
was  how  I  thought  of  it  then,  and  do  still — might  carry  my  friend. 
But  I  said  nothing  further  at  the  time. 

I  think  it  was  more  curiosity  as  to  whether  Cooky  was  right 
about  the  Pope  and  the  Woolsack,  than  any  misgivings  of  the 
soundness  of  his  military  visions,  that  made  me  revive  the  subject 
one  evening  in  conversation  with  my  father.  I  asked  him  point- 
blank — wasn't  Cooky  all  wrong? 

"  As  to  the  Pope  of  Rome,"  said  he,  "  I  couldn't  say  offhand.  I 
suppose  they  would  say  there  was  no  precedent.  .  .  .  But  stop 
a  bit !" 

I  threw  in : — "  Of  course  Popes  are  all  Christians." 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that,"  said  he.  "  I  suspect  the  first  Pope  was 
a  Jew.  Name  of  Peter."  He  said  this  with  such  placid  gravity 
that  I  was  quite  taken  in. 

'•  Hooky !  "  said  I,  intelligently.  "  I  never  knew  that.  How 
rum  he  must  have  looked !  "  For  I  imagined  to  myself  a  being 


300  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

resembling  the  Wandering  Jew,  according  to  Leech,  in  Once  a 
Week,  but  in  full  pontifical  uniform. 

My  father  perceived  this,  and  supplied  reservations.  "  You 
mustn't  run  away  with  the  idea,  -young  man,  that  he  resembled 
what  that  young  monkey  drew,  entirely  with  sixes,  at  your  Art 
School.  Nor  that  he  had  three  hats "  He  stopped,  reflec- 
tively. 

"  Well ! "  said  I.  "  Cooky  made  me  draw  him  a  Jew,  all  sixes, 
that  way,  to  aggravate  his  sister  Rachel  with.  He  said  it  was 
just  like  his  brother-in-law."  For  I  thought  this  conventionaliza- 
tion of  the  Semitic  type — it  is  very  easy  to  do — was  responsible 
for  my  father's  pause. 

"Very  likely,"  said  he.  "But  I  was  thinking  of  the  Pope's 
tiara.  Is  it  possible  that  ?  .  .  .  Oh  no — stuff  and  nonsense !  " 
I  was  not  so  clear  about  his  meaning  at  the  time  as  the  con- 
templation of  sundry  pictorial  triple  crowns  has  since  made  me. 
"  However,"  he  continued,  "  it's  a  nice  question,  and  we  needn't 
settle  it.  As  for  the  main  point,  whether  Nebuchadnezzar  is  right 
or  wrong,  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  the  Woolsack  is  out  of  his 
reach,  on  account  of  his  race  alone.  If  he  has  no  objection  to 
being  baptized,  and  not  stopping  away  from  Church  for  religious 
reasons — he  may  stop  away  for  irreligious  ones,  because  recusants 
go  scot-free  nowadays — I  don't  see  that  he  hasn't  the  same  chance 
of  becoming  Lord  Chancellor  as  any  one  else  has  who  goes  in  for 
the  Law." 

"  That's  what  Cooky  says  himself.  Only  he  wouldn't  do  it  to  be 
Lord  Chancellor." 

"  What  consideration  would  he  insist  on  ?  I  mean,  what  would 
he  do  it  for?" 

"  A  commission  in  a  crack  cavalry  regiment.  Provided  it  was 
under  orders  to  go  out  to  India." 

"  I  see.  Very  moderate ! "  said  my  father,  tapping  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe.  For  this  was  in  the  library  after  dinner,  where 
we  were  indulging  in  a  tete-a-tete  as  of  old;  a  thing  rare  enough 
now,  as  my  stepmother  was  fond  of  company,  so  that  my  father 
often  got  an  affirmative  answer  to  his  question,  "  Are  the  So-and- 
so's  coming  to  dinner  tonight,  my  dear?"  with  the  patronymic 
of  the  particular  So-and-so's  supplied.  There  were  always  con- 
comitant male  So-and-so's,  who  knew  which  cigar  to  choose,  and 
how  to  tie  their  white  chokers.  But  this  time  there  had  been  no 
So-and-so's,  as  Jemima  was  taking  the  girls  to  three  stalls  at  the 
Lyceum,  to  see  "  As  You  Like  It." 

I  think  my  father  was  even  less  aware  than  I  was  of  how  much 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  301 

Cooky  was  in  earnest.  It  was  to  come  upon  us  suddenly,  a  few 
days  later. 

I  can  recall  the  occasion  vividly,  for  all  the  fifty  years  be- 
tween. Another  incident  was  prominent  that  evening.  The  Rev. 
Irenseus  Macphail  had  diffidently  confessed  to  my  father  his 
ambition  to  become  his  son-in-law,  with  the  connivance,  or  at 
the  instance,  or  by  the  grace,  or  at  the  expense — as  you  please — 
of  my  sister  Ellen.  He  had  dined  with  us  that  evening  in  ratifi- 
cation of  my  father's  provisional  consent  to  accept  him  in  that 
capacity,  had  said  grace,  and  had  tenderly,  discreetly,  clerically 
saluted  the  females  of  the  family. 

Is  it  permissible  to  me,  at  this  length  of  time,  to  record  what 
I  believe  to  have  been  the  real  reason  for  rejoicing  at  this  arrange- 
ment? It  was  not  so  much  that  Ellen  would  be  provided  with 
a  mate  of  her  own  selection,  and  with  what  I  expressed  as  her 
"  whack  "  of  devotional  exercises — what  I  said  was  "  pulpits  and 
candlesticks  " — as  that  the  actual  scene  of  this  whack  would  be 
no  nearer  than  the  Isle  of  Man.  I  felt  that  I  might  get  through 
life,  with  clever  tactics,  without  being  once  compelled  to  hear 
my  brother-in-law  read  prayers  or  preach  a  sermon.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  have  succeeded;  for  after  Ellen's  marriage  invitations 
to  visit  Kirkhowlet  were  never  pushed  home,  and  something 
always  came  in  the  way,  or  was  dragged  there.  As  for  the 
wedded  couple's  visits  to  London,  they  were  quite  a  negligible 
quantity. 

If  my  father's  really  cordial  welcome  of  this  reverend  appli- 
cant for  his  daughter  was  like  a  right-minded  prize-fighter's 
salute  before  battle,  so  also  was  the  series  of  feints  and  dodges 
that  followed  throughout  the  evening  like  its  analogies  inside 
the  ropes.  Only,  their  object  was,  on  his  part,  to  avoid  landing 
on  theological  corns;  and,  on  the  part  of  the  clerical  aspirant, 
to  steer  clear  of  headlands  and  quicksands  of  Freethought.  I 
don't  think  Ellen  made  matters  any  better  by  kicking  her  adorer's 
shins  under  the  table  at  dinner,  or  making  with  her  lips  the 
words,  '*  Don't  answer ! "  for  guidance  in  his  difficulties.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  Ellen's  information  was  so  very  limited  on 
questions  of  Biblical  exegesis,  that  she  was  apt  to  suppose  that 
any  chance  use  of  a  phrase  from  Holy  Writ,  in  the  mouth  of 
Irreligion,  was  an  attack  of  set  purpose  on  the  foundations  of 
Christianity. 

I  am  sure,  for  instance,  that  my  father  intended  no  di?re- 
spect  to  the  Pentateuch  when  he  spoke  of  the  recent  stampede  of 
families  to  the  seaside  as  "  a  regular  exodus."  But  Ellen  must 


302  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Lave  thought  otherwise,  if — as  I  suppose  was  the  case — she  con- 
veyed to  her  lover  an  intimation  of  what  attitude  would  be  safest 
to  assume,  by  one  of  the  expedients  I  have  mentioned.  No  other 
theory  accounts  for  a  certain  action  on  his  part  as  of  one  who 
succours  or  caresses  the  injured  shin  of  one  leg  with  the  calf  of 
the  other.  I  didn't  look  under  the  table  to  see.  It  was  only 
guesswork,  helped  by  the  embarrassment  of  the  countenance  con- 
nected with  the  alleged  shin. 

Neither  did  my  father  intend  to  deride  either  Roman  or  Angli- 
can ritual  when  he  said: — u  Why  not  put  down  KamptuJicon? " 
The  nature  of  his  misunderstanding  which  provoked  this  was 
clear  when  my  stepmother,  to  illuminate  the  conversation,  said : — 
"Mr.  Macphail  doesn't  mean  that  sort,  my  dear.  He  is  refer- 
ring to  Early  Service."  To  which  my  father  said: — "Oh,  ah — no. 
of  course!  I  beg  your  pardon."  He  really  meant  no  harm,  but 
nevertheless  Ellen  threw  dumb  speech  across  the  table,  and  a 
fixed  glare,  to  enjoin  silence.  The  subject  of  this  discipline  really 
became  very  uncomfortable;  having  merely  said,  after  all,  that 
some  of  his  old-fashioned  parishioners  had  objected  to  "  Matins  " 
as  a  designation,  not  as  a  practice.  I  think  I  understood  after- 
wards that  Ellen  had  supposed  "  Kamptulicon,"  then  a  very  recent 
introduction,  to  be  some  Ecclesiastical  usage  she  had  never  heard 
of — some  observance  dating  back  to  the  Council  of  Nice,  for 
instance,  which  Rcnan  or  somebody  wanted  to  put  down.  I  sup- 
pose the  Rev.  Irenseus  furnished  her  up  afterwards,  as  when 
he  took  her  over,  raw,  she  was  certainly  no  bride  for  what  was 
called  a  Puseyite,  in  the  fifties.  The  name  seems  to  have  died 
out,  of  late  years. 

I  think  we  three  males  were  much  more  at  our  ease  when  the 
departure  of  the  ladies  released  the  new  incomer  from  super- 
vision. He  became,  so  to  speak,  quite  human  over  a  mild  cigar 
and  coffee  in  the  library,  telling  us  how  from  the  top  of  a  mountain 
near  his  vicarage  you  could  see  England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  and 
Wales  all  at  once,  which  he  seemed  to  consider  a  great  advantage. 
Also,  how  in  the  herring  season  all  the  manhood  of  the  island 
went  a-fishing,  and  the  women  had  to  turn  out  and  work  in  the 
fields;  and  about  Deemsters  and  Manx  cats,  in  reply  to  inquiries. 
I  think  I  made  as  much  acquaintance  with  my  clerical  brother- 
in-law  over  Manx  cats  as  Providence  intended  I  should  ever  en- 
joy; for  I  never  got  any  further  with  him  than  the  point  at  which 
a  knock  came  at  the  street-door,  and  my  father  recognizing  it, 
said: — "It  isn't  Nebuchadnezzar's  evening.  What  has  he  come 
for?"  I  didn't  know,  but  would  go  directly  and  see,  so  I  said. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  303 

I  infer  from  this,  and  my  delaying  a  few  minutes  to  clear  up 
those  Manx  cats,  that  I  had  no  misgivings  about  Cooky's  errand. 

My  father  then  said : — "  Yes,  cut  along,  Master  Jackey,"  and 
perhaps  wanted  me  to  go,  that  he  might  inquire  what  his  son-in- 
law  proposed  to  aliment  his  wife  with;  and  his  children,  if  any. 
For  the  good  gentleman  had  mentioned  that  the  emoluments  of 
his  office,  all  told,  amounted  to  sixty-five  pounds  a  year.  How- 
ever, I,  of  course,  heard  nothing  of  this.  I  only  heard  my  father 
say,  as  I  left  the  room : — "  It's  a  young  Jew  my  boy  knows.  We 
call  him  Nebuchadnezzar."  To  which  the  Rev.  Irenaeus  said: — 
"Oh  dear!"  in  a  weak  uncertain  way.  My  father  may  have 
said : — "  He  won't  bite  you."  But  I  can't  be  sure  of  that. 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  voices  in  the  drawing-room ;  that  is 
to  say,  surprised  that  they  should  be  so  audible  on  rny  side  of 
the  door.  I  went  in,  and  met  with  a  still  greater  surprise. 

"  Here  is  Jackey,"  cried  Gracey.  u  Oh,  Jackey,  Jackey,  stop  him  I 
Don't  let  him  go."  She  was  clinging  to  Cooky's  arm,  excited  and 
flushed.  He.  on  the  contrary,  looked  white  and  determined.  My 
stepmother  looked  startled,  but  with  a  duty  towards  sedateness 
called  for  by  her  position.  I  think  I  heard  her  say : — "  G.racey 
dear!  "  as  though  to  remonstrate  with  a  venial  sin  against  Grundy. 
Ellen  murmured  feebly: — "Yes,  Gracey,  don't!" 

I  misunderstood  the  position.  u  Because  of  Elsey's  parson  ?  " 
said  I.  "  Bother  him!  Why  should  you  go  because  of  him?  " 

I  was  so  wide  of  the  mark  that  they  all  had  to  stop  and  think. 
My  stepmother  exchanged  a  puzzled  glance  with  Ellen,  as  though 
to  ask:— "What  is  the  boy  talking  about?" 

Cooky  spoke  first.  "Who's  Miss  Ellen's  parson?"  said  he. 
"Has  she  got  a  parson?"  And  then  Gracey  said: — "Yes.  But 
never  mind  him  now.  He'll  do  another  time.  Tell  Jackey  about 
yourself  and  India,  Monty." 

"I — say — Cooky!"  said  I,  with  a  minim  between  each  word 
and  its  neighbour.  "  You  never  mean  to  say  you're  going  to ' 

u  Yes — I  do.  I'm  going  to.  I've  bought  my  commission."  He 
had  only  just  announced  his  news,  in  more  concrete  language,  when 
I  came  in.  There  was  no  need  for  greater  clearness,  between 
us.  We  had  dealt  with  the  position,  although  as  an  impossible 
hypothesis.  Such  finite  and  incisive  action  as  the  purchase  of  a 
commission  was  outside  my  anticipation;  but  the  moment  he 
spoke  of  it,  I  saw  how  he  stood  committed. 

My  recollection  is  of  standing  somewhat  dumbfoundered,  for 
a  few  seconds,  then  finding  nothing  better  to  say  than : — "  Where 
did  you  get  the  money  ? " 


304  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  My  old  aunt  Hyman's  legacy.  I  was  to  have  it  all  straight 
off  and  do  just  what  I  like  with  it.  I  liked  this." 

"What  did  your  Governor  say?"  I  was  conscious  that  I  was 
asking  weak  questions,  at  random.' 

"  Tell  you  presently,  little  Buttons !  Anyhow,  it's  all  settled. 
I'm  to  join  at  once,  and  go  out  in  the  Himalaya  on  the  twenty- 
first.  The  regiment's  there — Ninth  Lancers."  We  went  on,  he 
and  I,  filling  out  what  would  else  have  been  silence  with  talk  about 
material  aspects  of  his  sudden  resolution — as,  whether  his  journey 
would  be  overland  or  round  the  Cape,  and  so  on;  and  felt,  or 
at  least  I  felt,  that  in  doing  so  we  were  stiffening  the  conversa- 
tion with  a  masculine  element,  and  keeping  in  check  any  possible 
tension  of  female  excitement.  Men  do  this,  and  account  it  a 
faculty  for  looking  realities  in  the  face.  It  is  really  the  reverse, 
and  a  mere  means  of  slurring  over  emotion,  which  they  think 
it  their  official  duty  to  keep  in  abeyance.  My  stepmother  helped, 
equably,  as  a  bystander  in  Society,  and  was  interested  in  the 
arrangements  of  large  troop-ships  on  the  voyage  out.  As  for 
Ellen,  I  believe  the  reason  she  was  indulging  so  in  that  practice 
of  pulling  her  lips  out  of  shape  was  that  a  problem  was  perplexing 
her.  How  was  she  to  reconcile  the  presences  in  the  same  room, 
possibly,  within  the  next  five  minutes,  of  a  palpable  Jew  and  an 
indisputable  Christian  priest?  Two  incompatibles,  clearly !  Other- 
wise, I  believe  Ellen  was  far  from  sorry  that  Cooky  should  depart 
to  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 

I  took  Gracey's  concern  at  his  departure  for  granted,  and  never 
asked  myself  why,  in  the  moments  that  followed,  the  first  sudden 
flush  in  her  face  should  die  slowly  down,  and  leave  it  so  ashy 
white.  One  does  not  analyze  the  exact  effect  of  a  shock.  I  did 
wonder  a  little — this  I  recollect — why  she  fell  back  from  the  group 
to  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  and  remained  in  silent  pallor,  with  her 
eyes  always  fixed  on  Cooky.  Neither  of  the  others  appeared  to 
notice  her. 

My  remonstrance  with  my  friend — for  I  felt  one  was  called 
for — I  suppose  to  have  been  the  weakest  effort  of  its  sort  on 
record.  "  I  say,  Cooky,  though,  what  do  you  want  to  go  out 
there  for?  Haven't  they  got  lots  of  chaps  already.  .  .  ?" 

"  No — that's  just  where  it  is.  They  get  killed,  and  then  some 
one  else  has  to  do  instead.  I  shan't  be  good  for  anything  to 
speak  of,  not  for  a  twelvemonth  at  least.  But  I'm  going,  for 
my  own  sake.  It's  the  thing  to  do,  for  those  that  can."  I  felt 
that  as  far  as  appearances  went,  only  th*  uniform  was  wanting 
to  make  a  show  of  fitness. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  305 

I  carried  my  interrupted  remonstrance  forward,  on  similar 
weak  lines.  "  But  suppose  you  get  killed,  before  you  know  how 
to— how  to " 

"  How  to  ride  and  shoot  and  things  ?  Well — till  I  learn  a  little 
of  my  profession,  I  shall  have  to  confine  myself  to  running  away, 
like  Feeble  the  woman's  tailor.  .  .  .  Only  a  chap  in  Shakespeare, 
Mrs.  Pascoe!  .  .  .  But  it's  not  really  so  bad  as  Buttons  thinks. 
When  I  wa^s  at  Grousehalton  I  found  out  I  had  a  turn  for  riding 
and  shooting.  I  shall  make  a  very  tidy  Ninth  Lancer,  in  a  twelve- 
month." He  made  a  show  of  laughing  and  treating  the  whole 
thing  lightly,  but  it  was  plain  that  it  cost  him  an  effort  to  do 
so.  I  could  hear  it  in  his  voice,  and  I  noticed  one  thing,  that  he 
never  addressed  Gracey,  looking  rather  towards  her  sister  and 
stepmother. 

Grousehalton  was  the  great  estate  in  Northumberland,  belong- 
ing to  Lord  Arrears;  who,  it  was  said,  would  have  had  to  sell  it, 
if  he,  or  his  title,  had  not  touched  the  heart  of  an  incalculable 
fortune,  which  was  also  that  of  a  not  very  remote  cousin  of  Cooky's. 
This  lady,  making  the  acquaintance  of  her  relative,  had  pressed 
him  to  spend  a  holiday  at  Grousehalton ;  that  her  friends  might 
see,  she  said,  a  good-looking  example  of  the  Jewish  rising  genera- 
tion. There  Cooky  had  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  saddle 
and  the  sportsman's  gun,  with  marked  eclat.  We  used  to  rally 
him — at  least  Gracey  did — on  an  impression  he  was  alleged  to  have 
made  on  Lady  Millicent  Arrears,  his  Lordship's  daughter  by  his 
first  marriage,  who  afterwards  became  Lady  Rarconey.  If  any 
student  of  Debrett  were  here,  I  could  ask  him  if  I  have  remem- 
bered these  names  right. 

So,  when  he  said  he  would  make  a  tidy  Ninth  Lancer  in  a 
twelvemonth,  I  for  one  could  easily  believe  he  spoke  the  truth. 
Saul  or  David  would  not  have  made  better  Ninth  Lancers.  "  Of 
course,  I  didn't  mean  that!"  said  I.  "You'll  do,  fast  enough, 
as  far  as  that  goes.  I  only  meant,  suppose  you  were  to  go  and 
get  killed  right  off,  where  would  be  the  use  of  that?  I  say.  Cooky, 
don't  go!  Chuck  it!  "  I  was  being  roused  to  an  earnest  feeling — 
roused  out  of  my  incorrigible  juvenility. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  if  I  get  killed  right  off,  I  shall  look  rather 
an  ass !  "  And  then  they  all  laughed  at  me  in  a  sort  of  patron- 
izing way,  and  I  felt  disconcerted.  "  No,"  he  continued.  "  Don't 
you  be  frightened,  Buttons.  They  never  kill  Ensigns — they're  not 
worth  it.  Time  enough  to  think  about  that  when  I've  got  my 
lieutenancy!  You  see  if  I  don't  live  to  be  a  Colonel." 

"  Or   a   Major   General,"    said    my   stepmother,    optimistically. 


306  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Or  why  not  a  Field  Marshal  while  we  are  about  it?  Now  sit 
down  and  let's  be  reasonable." 

We  sat  down  and  were,  I  presume,  reasonable.  I  think  I  eased 
Ellen's  mind  considerably  by  saying  that  my  Governor  and  her 
parson — as  I  called  him  to  her  face — were  "  going  in  for  a  talk," 
which  would  last  a  week,  certainly ;  till  Doomsday,  possibly.  At 
any  rate  it  would  postpone  that  awkward  collision  of  Christianity 
and  Judaism.  I  am  not  sure  she  did  not  feel  happier  after  reflect- 
ing on  the  respectability  of  the  Army.  Such  an  unimpeachable 
profession  was  surely  halfway  to  Christianity — might  prove  a 
stepping-stone.  And  in  any  case  if  the  interview  between  her 
father  and  lover  lasted  up  to  the  point  of  its  natural  importance, 
there  would  be  no  time  left  for  either  an  Early  Martyrdom  on 
the  one  hand,  or  a  pogrom  on  the  other,  if  Irenaeus  was  to  catch 
the  last  'bus  for  Charing  Cross. 

There  was  no  excuse  for  the  Club  to  get  away  and  talk  over 
its  pending  loss  of  a  member,  though  there  might  have  been  had 
his/  defection  been  immediate.  But  the  Himalaya  would  not 
sail  for  some  weeks  yet;  the  hour  of  parting  had  not  come.  It 
was  a  bore,  because  the  presence  of  the  non-members  was  only 
a  gene  on  conversation.  We  only  made  talk,  really.  I  endeav- 
oured to  murmur  "  Bother  Jemima !  "  undetected,  within  range 
of  sympathetic  guesswork.  Ellen  counted  for  nothing — was  not 
worth  bothering  about. 

Jemima  had  had  relations  in  India,  and  propounded  them  as 
trustworthy  authorities  about  a  much-misrepresented  climate.  It 
really  was  perfectly  bearable  provided  you  abstained  totally  from 
every  kind  of  drink,  and  ate  nothing — I  think  that's  right — till 
after  sundown.  WTater  enthusiastically  boiled  might  be  indulged 
in  without  fear  of  enteritis,  and  fruit  was,  of  course,  safe,  only 
it  had  to  be  eaten  when  peeled,  sharp.  The  same  rule  applied 
to  fleshmeat.  This  last,  however,  would  keep  for  twenty-four 
hours,  if  slightly  sprayed  with  weak  carbolic  acid.  A  friend  of  a 
cousin  of  hers  had  kept  remarkably  healthy  on  sterilized  Aber- 
nethy  biscuit.  Some  phrase  of  subsequent  enlightenments  about 
Germs  may  have  got  worked  into  my  Memory,  but  the  text  may 
stand. 

Cooky  had  no  apprehensions  of  the  climate.  Besides,  he  was 
peculiar — in  fact,  his  whole  family  was.  "  Bad  climates  suit 
MB,"  said  he.  "  down  to  the  ground.  In  fact,  my  uncle  at  Sierra 
Leon  is  the  healthiest  of  the  whole  kit  of  us.  And  he  says  the 
whole  territory,  where  he  is,  is  festering  with  zymotic  disease." 
Jemima  said: — "Dear  me!"  but  did  not  quarrel  with  the  state- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  307 

ment,  perhaps  because  it  rather  confirmed  her  own  position  than 
otherwise. 

The  talk  or  colloquy  of  my  father  and  the  Rev.  Irenaeus  did 
not  last  even  to  the  end  of  the  lesser  time  I  had  predicted  for 
it.  Its  metaphorical  week  was  a  short  one — under  half-an-hour. 
They  came  into  the  drawing-room  conversing  cheerfully  and  look- 
ing satisfied.  I  afterwards  found  that  this  was  because  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  had  revealed  that  he  was  the  only  son  of  a 
venerable  mother  who  allowed  him  five  hundred  a  year  and  would 
in  the  course  of  nature  die.  In  fact,  he  had  a  practical  certainty 
and  good  expectations.  No  father  in  his  senses  could  quarrel 
•with  such  a  settlement  in  life  for  a  daughter  with  a  passionate 
Ecclesiastical  turn;  and  the  fact  that  she  knew  nothing  whatever 
of  Church  History  was  all  so  much  to  the  good.  Her  mind  was 
a  tabula  rasa  on  which  Tractarianism  could  be  written  in  a  good 
round  hand,  which  might,  for  anything  she  knew,  be  one  long 
clerical  error — in  either  sense — from  beginning  to  end.  It  would 
not  matter  to  her,  and  if  her  husband  had  dispositions  to  go 
over  to  Rome,  she  could  accompany  him.  The  living  was  only 
sixty-five  pounds  a  year,  as  previously  stated. 

All  this,  however,  came  to  my  knowledge  later.  When  my 
father  and  Ellen's  fiance  came  into  the  drawing-room,  I  confess 
that  my  curiosity  to  see  whether  he  and  my  friend  Cooky  would 
spit  and  fizzle,  like  cats,  superseded  other  interests.  I  was  sur- 
prised and  rather  relieved  when,  on  being  introduced,  they  shook 
hands  cordially,  and  each  said  he  was  happy  to  make  the  other's 
acquaintance.  Ellen  became  tranquillized,  and  let  her  lips  alone. 
I  afterwards  gathered  that  Mr.  MacphaiFs  only  comment  on 
Cooky  was: — "A  fine  looking  chap,  at  any  rate!  Well — we  must 
hope."  My  father,  who  told  me  of  this,  interpreted  it  as  a  timid 
expression  of  confidence  that  the  Almighty  would  see  His  way 
to  a  compromise  on  the  subject  of  Damnation,  in  difficult  cases. 
u  It  would  be  a  graceful  act,"  said  my  father,  drily,  "  seeing  that 
the  difficulties_are  of  His  own  creation." 

Gracey  said  suddenly,  across  the  last  words  of  the  introduc- 
tion:— "But  Monty's  going  to  India.  Papa!"  My  father  said: — 
"  Oh,  is  that  it.  chick  ? "  But  I  think  he  saw  how  white  she  was, 
for  he  added: — "He'll  come  back  again.  Mustn't  be  frightened!  " 
He  then  remembered  my  talk  with  him  in  the  library,  and  said : — 
"Is  this  the  crack  cavalry  regiment,  and  is  it  under  orders  to 
sail  for  India?" 

"  It's  in  India  now,  Sir.  or  part  of  it  is.  I  sail  by  the  Himalaya 
next  month."  Thus  Cooky. 


308  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"Papa!  "  said  Gracey,  who  had  crossed  the  room  to  her  father, 
and  was  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"What,   chick?" 

"  Stop  him !  Don't  let  Monty  go !  ...  If  he  goes  we  shall 
never  see  him  again."  Speaking  was  good  to  bring  her  colour  back. 

"  My  dear !  "  said  Jemima,  who  always  seemed  to  hold  a  brief 
for  moderation — a  correct  attitude! — "Is  not  that  rather ?" 

My  father  was  standing  with  a  hand  caressingly  over  Gracey's 
shoulder.  He  took  very  little  notice  of  Jemima — only  a  parentheti- 
cal "  All  right,  my  dear !  "  Then  he  asked : — "  Has  Nebuchad- 
nezzar made  up  his  mind  ? "  more  of  Gracey  than  of  Cooky  him- 
self. But  the  latter  answered : — "  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind, 
Mr.  Pascoe,  and  I  think  I  am  doing  right." 

This  did  not  receive  unanimous  assent,  I  am  afraid  I  said, 
"That's  rot!"  and  Gracey  said,  doubtfully: — "But  are  you?  Is 
he,  Papa  ?  "  My  father,  regarded  as  The  Bench,  naturally,  summed 
up.  "  Well,  Nebuchadnezzar,  I'm  bound  to  say  that  if  the  belong- 
ings of  our  able-bodied  young  men  were  to  have  their  way  in 
wartime,  we  should  have  a  mighty  small  army.  Every  one  thinks 
every  one  else  has  a  relative  to  spare.  So  all  I  can  say  is — go, 
and  good  luck  go  with  you !  "  To  which  every  one  agreed.  Ex- 
cept, indeed,  the  new  couple,  who  got  away  in  a  corner,  wrapped 
up  in  their  own  affairs;  in  doing  which  they  were  within  their 
rights.  What  others,  caeteris  paribus,  have  ever  done  otherwise? 
My  father  continued: — "Don't  get  outside  more  bullets  than  you 
need — they  are  nasty  things,  and  quite  indigestible.  The  better 
part  of  valour  is  discretion."  Then  he  made  even  Gracey  look 
less  downcast,  by  pointing  out  that  the  invariable  early  death  of 
military  men  was  quite  incompatible  with  the  myriads  of  old 
officers  one  met  in  Society  and  at  the  Clubs.  A  cheerful  conver- 
sation followed  about  the  meaning  of  the  word  decimated,  Cooky 
putting  on  record  the  view  held  by  an  aunt  of  his,  that  a  regiment 
decimated  ten  times  wouldn't  be  there  at  all.  I  recollect  also 
some  question  of  the  possibility  of  decimating  nine  men,  and 
whether  it  would  be  more  humane  to  cut  nine-tenths  off  one  man, 
or  one-tenth  off  each.  We  ceased  being  seri«us.  under  my  father's 
example;  all  but  Gracey,  who  remained  pale  and  silent,  and  made 
scarcely  any  concession  to  a  hilarity  which  may  have  been 
assumed. 

I  am  sure,  on  thinking  it  over,  that  on  Cooky's  part  it  was 
assumed.  But  I  am  equally  sure  that  he  was  quite  unaffected 
by  the  risks  he  was  to  encounter  in  the  future.  I  came  to  know 
and  understand,  later,  what  it  was  that  caused  that  look  of 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  309 

strained  determination,  forcing  its  way  through  reckless  levity 
about  war;  on  which  subject  he  might  have  been  the  British 
linesman  as  portrayed  by  correspondents  at  the  front,  during  a 
campaign.  And  yet — this  reached  even  my  unobservant  facul- 
ties— he  scarcely  looked  at  Gracey.  She,  on  the  contrary,  scarcely 
took  her  eyes  off  him,  sitting  close  by  my  father,  caressing  the 
hand  that  remained  round  her  neck,  and  joining  very  perfunc- 
torily, if  at  all,  in  the  idle  speculations  of  us  others  on  matters 
connected  with  military  life.  My  own  experience  had  to  come, 
to  teach  me  that  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  look  at  her.  His 
die  was  cast;  his  future  and  hers  were  to  be  wrenched  asunder, 
and  he  could  not  be  true  to  the  resolution  he  had  formed  if  he 
allowed  his  eyes  the  sight  of  what  he  was  renouncing.  That  is 
how  I  conceive  of  the  state  of  his  mind,  now.  Poor  Cooky! 

Having  found  that  I  still  remember  so  much  of  that  evening 
fifty  years  ago,  I  grudge  leaving  it.  But  it  leaves  me,  watching 
from  our  doorstep  my  old  school  hero  and  my  proposed  and  ac- 
cepted brother-in-law  making  so  much  haste  to  catch  the  last 
'bus  that  neither  a  Crucifixion  or  a  Pogrom  entered  into  practical 
politics.  And  once  inside  the  omnibus,  there  was  the  conductor. 

Gracey  was  very  silent  to  me  about  Cooky's  departure.  Let- 
ters came  from  him  to  her  which  she  refused  to  show  me,  or  left 
upstairs  after  promising  to  do  so,  which  is  nearly  the  same  thing. 
I  believe  our  old  guardian  Genius,  Varnish,  was  the  cause  of 
my  opaque  faculties  receiving  a  measure  of  enlighteilment  on 
the  situation. 

"  Miss  Gracey  she's  in  a  fine  taking  about  Master  Monty,"  said 
she  to  me  one  day  when  Gracey  was  safe  out  of  the  way.  "  And 
I  tell  you  this,  Master  Jackey,  I'm  'artily  sorry  for  her,  that 
I  am." 

I  hung  out  a  signal  of  imperception.  "  Of  course,  she  doesn't 
like  Cooky  hooking  it  like  this.  But  then,  no  more  do  I,  for  that 
matter.  And  I've  known  him  longer  than  she  has.  Besides,  I 
was  at  school  with  him." 

"  That  does  for  talkin',  Master  Jackey,"  said  she.  "  There's  some 
things  young  gentlemen's  sisters  have  to  sit  up  and  think  about, 
which  don't  fret  nor  worry  them.  And  so  I  tell  you,  Squire." 

"What  things?  I  don't  know  any  things  ..."  It  may  be 
that  I  had  misgivings  that,  after  all.  girls  were  not  boys,  because 
I  shied  off  the  issue,  saying: — "Besides,  Cooky  will  come  back 
all  right.  Sure  to!" 

"Ah,  Master  Jackey!  Who's  to  say  that,  with  the  Lord  Al- 
mighty's eye  watching  of  us  all  the  while?  Only  I  do  pray  on 


310  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

my  knees  he  may  come  back  alive,  with  God's  blessing.  But  then, 
as  I  say,  where  are  we?  No  better  off,  that  I  see,  than  if  he'd 
stopped  at  home !  " 

I  could  not  follow  this,  and  said  so.  It  was  not  a  point  to 
elaborate  clearly  while  threading  a  darning  needle,  so  the  reply 
came  slowly.  But  it  came. 

"  It  isn't  anywhere  like  Miss  Ellen's  good  gentleman  she's  set 
her  'art  on,  and  no  one  to  say  a  word  against  it,  or  take  excep- 
tion. Your  papa  may  call  him  Candlesticks  behind  his  back,  but 
anyhow  you  put  it,  a  Clergyman  is  not  a  Heathen,  and  keeps 
clear  of  Sinnergogs  and  vanities."  I  adopt  this  spelling  of  Syna- 
gogue because  I  feel  sure  that  Varnish's  mind  spelled  it  so,  with 
a  collateral  sense  of  the  wickedness  of  modern  Israel,  in  associa- 
tion with  Turks,  Heretics,  and  Infidels. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  I,  grasping  the  point  at  issue.  "You  mean 
Gracey  and  Monty  can't  get  married.  They  never  said  they 
•wanted  to,  that  I  know  of.  But  supposing  they  did?" 

"  Law,  Master  Jackey,  whatever  are  you  going  to  say  next  ? " 

"Well — I  don't  see  anything  to  -fly  out  about.  Look  at  Lord 
Thingummybob  and  Cooky's  cousin  that  asked  him  down  to 
stay.  He's  a  Christian  and  she's  a  Jew — a  she-Jew.  You  ask 
the  Governor.  He  told  me." 

"Your  papa  he  knows,  Master  Jackey.  so  why  ask  him?" 

Varnish  may  have  considered  that  information  sought  for  pre- 
supposed* and  expressed  an  attitude  of  incredulity.  She  accepted 
my  father's  statement,  but  threw  doubt  on  its  applicability. 
"  Lords  go  their  own  way,"  said  she,  "  and  no  questions  asked. 
'  Tisn't  like  the  same  thing  as  a  plain  person.  Then,  I  lay  she 
had  money,  bags  on  bags !  " 

I  can't  remember  exactly  what  answer  I  made,  but  its  upshot 
was  that  if  any  legal  or  sacerdotal  barrier  existed  to  the  mar- 
riage of  Jews  and  Christians,  the  Court  of  Chancery  and  the 
Province  of  Canterbury  would  drive  a  coach-and-six  through  it 
for  a  liberal  commission.  Anyhow,  I  conceded  that  the  cases 
were  different.  But  who  was  to  prevent  simple  unqualified  "  per- 
sons "  getting  married,  if  they  liked,  when  Dukes  did,  whether 
they  were  Jews  or  Christians?  "People  next  door  or  across  the 
way" — was  the  way  I  put  it. 

Varnish  seemed  to  have  an  impression  that  the  officiating  clergy- 
man art  a  wedding  could  prohibit  the  marriage,  and  would  do 
so  if  not  intimidated  or  tipped.  She  exonerated  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  as  above  temptation,  but  did  not  seem  so  sure 
about  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Local  officials  were  mostly  open  to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  311 

douceurs.  I  discredited  these  suspicions  as  groundless,  and  main- 
tained that  the  union  of  Cooky's  relative  and  her  noble  mate 
was  u  all  square,"  and  that  any  similar  nuptials  might  also  be 
rectangular.  Varnish  conceded  the  point. 

I  returned  to  my  previous  question.  Supposing  Gracey  and 
Cooky  did  want  to  get  married,  what  then?  I  found  that  there 
was  in  the  background  of  my  dear  old  nurse's  mind  a  thickset 
hedge  of  ancient  prejudice  on  the  subject.  She  could,  and  did, 
love  my  old  schoolmate  for  his  steadfast  friendship,  his  good  influ- 
ence— as  I  see  now — over  myself,  and  his  chivalrous  instinct  that 
was  carrying  him  away  to  danger,  possibly  to  death.  But  when 
it  came  to  marrying,  all  she  could  say  was  that  she  wished  him 
a  loving  wife  of  the  best  quality  to  be  found  in  his  own-  persua- 
sion— whom  I  am  sure  she  thought  of  as,  broadly  speaking,  an 
old  clotheswoman — but  not  our  Miss  Gracey.  I  had  better  ask 
my  pa,  and  see  what  he  would  say. 

I  warmed  up  to  my  subject.  "  Do,  you,  mean,  to  say,  Var- 
nish?" said  I,  in  instalments  for  emphasis.  "Do — you — mean 
to  say,  the  Governor  would  stick  up  for  Ellen  marrying  a  Snivel- 
ling Ass  like  her  Parson,  and  not  like  Gracey,  to  marry  Cooky?" 

"  Well,  Master  Jacky,"  said  Varnish,  "  don.'t  you  take  nothing 
I  say.  But  just  you  ask  your  pa." 

I  took  this  advice,  and  the  next  time  I  was  alone  with  my 
father,  broke  in  upon  the  first  whiffs  of  his  evening  pipe  with: — 
"  I  say,  P  " — a  variation  this  of  the  word  pater,  sometimes  used — 
"why  can't  Jews  marry  Christians?" 

u  Do  you  mean — whether  the  Christians  like  it  or  no?" 

I  replied : — '*  I'm  not  such  an  idiot  as  all  that  comes  to.  I 
mean  when  the  him  and  the  her,  either  way  on,  want  to  be  mairied, 
what's  to  prevent  them  ? " 

"  In  that  case,"  said  my  father,  puffing  sedately,  "  the  answer 
is  more  difficult."  He  considered  a  little,  or  pretended  to  do  so, 
then  went  on : — "  If  the  Christian  gentleman — or  lady,  as  may 
be — has  no  substantial  objection  to  the  other  party,  wife  or  hus- 
band as  may  be,  being  damned,  then  I  see  no  reason  why  they 
shouldn't  be  married.  Which  may  hold  good  vice  versa." 

"  But  suppose  both  of  them  think  it's  rot  about  Hell,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing?" 

"  I  confess  that  I  cannot  see  why  a  couple  with  such  broad 
religious  views  should  allow  themselves  to  be  kept  apart  by  nar- 
row-minded contemporaries.  But  are  we  not  ignoring  an  im- 
portant point?  What  claim  would  the  non-Jew  have  to  be  con- 
sidered a  Christian?" 


312  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  I  thought  every  one  was  a  Christian  that  didn't  say  he  wasn't, 
except  Jews." 

"  A  very  lukewarm  orthodoxy !  But  I  believe  there  is  a  popular 
impression  to  that  effect.  Now  I'  was  brought  up  to  consider 
Jews  damned,  and  that  it  was  at  least  unsound  to  think  other- 
wise. So  if  the  lady  or  gentleman  we  are  talking  of  didn't  think 
the  gentleman  or  lady  we  are  talking  of  damned,  I  doubt  the 
claim  of  the  candidate  for  damnation  to  have  married  a  Christian. 
However,  under  your  lax  definition  of  Christianity,  I  can  see  no 
reason  why  Christians  shouldn't  marry  Jews  as  much  as  they 
like,  subject  to  the  usual  reservations.  What's  the  case  in  point? 
Who's  the  Jew?  Who's  the  Christian?" 

"  Oh— none  in  particular." 

"Yes.  But  suppose  it  had  been  some  one  in  particular,  who 
would  the  Jew  in  particular  have  been  ? " 

"Well— Cooky  then!" 

"  So  I  supposed."  My  father  hung  fire  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  said,  with  his  eyes  resting  on  me,  so  that  I  felt  rather  in  the 
dock: — "And  are  we  supposed  to  know  who  is  the  she-Christian 
Nebuchadnezzar  has  set  his  heart  on?" 

"Well — yes!"  said  I,  uneasily.  "At  least — no!  It's  all  hum- 
bugging, you  know!  Supposing,  don't  you  know?" 

"Get  on  with  the  story!     Who's  the  she-Christian." 

"  It  was  all  talk,  you  know — me  and  Varnish !  " 

u  You  and  Varnish.  Quite  so.  And  I  entirely  understand  that 
the  case  you  were  discussing  was  hypothetical.  We're  clear  about 
that.  Now  who  was  the  hypothetical  she-Christian?" 

«  Well— Gracey  then !  " 

"  I  thought  so."  My  father  was  silent  for  a  spell,  in  which 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  renewal  of  the  subject  to  him, 
being  indeed  sorry  I  had  started  it.  Then  he  said: — "  Are  Gracey 
and  Nebuchadnezzar  supposed  to  be  in  each  other's  confidence  on 
the  subject?" 

I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  reply : — "  They  wouldn't  tell  me.  How 
should  /  know?  It  was  only  my  idea,  and  I  asked  Varnish." 

"  Only  your  idea,  Master  Inquisitive  Speculation  ?  And  how 
did  you  come  by  your  idea?  Perhaps  it  was  only  The  Artistic 
Mind,  when  all's  said  and  done.  Eh,  Jackey  boy?  Perhaps  we 
don't  know  anything?  Do  we,  or  don't  we?" 

I  said: — "  Oh — well! — if  you  come  to  that,  of  course  we  don't!  " 
I  could  see  that  it  relieved  him  to  find  that  I  was  uninformed — 
that  there  was  nothing  official  in  my  communications.  But  I 
think  he  credited  me  with  grounds  for  speculation,  as  was  reason- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  313 

able  under  the  circumstances.  I  hastened  to  emphasize  the  abstract 
nature  of  my  inquiry.  "  It  really  was  only  me  and  Varnish,  talk- 
ing," I  said.  "I  just  wanted  to  know — that  was  all." 

"  And  it  was  a  question  with  knotty  points  in  it,"  said  he, 
speaking  more  seriously.  "  There's  this  for  instance.  People  have 
families — it's  a  way  they  have,  and  we  needn't  analyze  it — and 
the  families  of  mixed  marriages  have  to  be  brought  up.  When  a 
Mahomedaii  marries  an  Atheist,  for  instance,  their  small  fry 
have  to  be  turned  into  little  Mahomedans,  or  little  Atheists.  Which 
is  it  to  be?  Jews  and  Christians  are  in  the  same  boat." 

To  prove  that  I  appreciated  this,  I  cited  an  even  greater  em- 
barrassment under  which  Cooky's  aristocratic  connections  had 
found  themselves.  The  noble  lord  was  a  Conservative  and  his 
lady  wife  was  a  Liberal. 

My  father  received  this  imperturbably.  "There  you  have  it!" 
said  he.  "  The  same  fix,  or  worse !  One  can  fancy  little  Jews 
and  Christians,  in  the  same  nursery,  practising  a  conventional 
toleration.  One  can  even  fancy  the  little  Jews  being  allowed 
their  little  sisters'  and  brothers'  crucifix  to  play  with,  and  con- 
ceding their  own  bags  and  hats  as  a  per  contra.  But — Liberals 
and  Conservatives !  "  Though  he  turned  off  the  subject  in  this 
joking  spirit,  I  could  see  it  had  caused  him  to  think,  if  only  by  the 
way  he  smoked  on,  after  his  pipe  was  cold. 

Reflection  lasted  a  little,  and  then  he  asked,  as  he  refilled  the 
pipe: — "Did  you  ever  talk  about  it  to  Nebuchadnezzar?  I  don't 
mean  bringing  Gracey  in;  only  what  people  think — Jews  think, 
particularly.  What  his  family  thinks,  for  instance!" 

"  Of  course  we've  talked  about  it !  "  I  said.  "  We  talk  about 
everything.  We  talked  a  lot  about  it  that  time  he  told  me  about 
his  swell  cousin.  He  says  he  knows  it  would  kill  his  old  mother 
if  a  son  of  hers  was  to  marry  a  Gentile.  He  didn't  say  Chris- 
tian." 

"  And  naturally  he  doesn't  want  to  kill  his  mother.  Anything 
else?" 

"  He  says  it's  .  .  .  it's  the  Chosen  people  .  .  .  that  sort  of 
game  you  know !  "  .  .  . 

"  I  know  the  game  you  refer  to.    Gee-up !  " 

"  Well — that's  his  old  mother's  idea,  not  his.  He  says  there 
are  such  a  lot  of  Chosen  Peoples." 

"  So  there  are — any  number.    And  all  on  the  same  authority." 

"God's?" 

"  No — their  own.  As  I  understand,  the  Almighty  has,  sa  far, 
said  nothing,  as  not  being  in  the  interest  of  the  public  service." 


314  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Well — Cooky  says  he  evidently  can't  make  up  his  mind  and 
Stick  to  it.  I  mean,  God  can't." 

"  We  have  to  consider  His  Inscrutable  Ways.  However,  with- 
out courting  mental  disaster  by  tackling  problems  beyond  our 
reach,  one  thing  is  clear,  that  Nebuchadnezzar  reveres  his  mother, 
whatever  he  thinks  of  his  Maker.  He's  a  good  boy.  And  he's 
going  to  India  to  put  a  stopper  on  Nana  Sahib !  "  My  stepmother 
came  in  here  and  the  conversation  stopped. 

On  a  later  occasion,  some  days  after  this,  I  caught  a  fag-end 
of  a  conversation  which  had  only  been,  hitherto,  a  fluctuating 
sound,  between  my  father  and  stepmother.  Her  words,  at  the 
end  of  a  winding-up  lull,  were  audible.  "  I  don't  quite  follow 
your  meaning,  Mr.  Pascoe;  but  no  doubt  you're  right.  Neverthe- 
less, I  do  think,  and  shall  always  think,  that  such  marriages  can 
never  turn  out  happily,  and  I  won't  pretend  I  am  not  glad  the 
young  man  is  going.  Not  that  I  have  anything  against  him  per- 
sonally !  "  A  few  interchanged  words  were  inaudible,  and  then 
I  caught  the  words : — "  They'll  have  forgotten  all  about  it  by 
then,  especially  the  boy." 

This  fragment,  and  similar  chance  gleanings,  were,  I  suspect, 
responsible  for  an  impression  I  have  still,  of  a  thing  most  im- 
probable in  itself,  and  of  which  I  cannot  localize  either  place  or 
time — namely,  that  my  father  and  stepmother  analyzed  the  situa- 
tion in  my  hearing.  Why  does  my  mind  ascribe  to  Jemima  the 
words : — "  Of  course  it  isn't  the  same  thing  where  there's  a  dis- 
tinct drawback.  .  .  .  Well,  I  mean,  if  you  will  have  it,  when 
a  girl's  leg  stands  in  her  way.  I  don't  see  any  use  pretending  ?  " 
Or  to  my  father  the  question,  asked  half  of  himself: — "Ought  it 
to  stand  in  her  way?" 

I  cannot  suppose  that  they  ever  took  me  into  their  confidence 
to  the  extent  of  talking  so  openly  in  my  presence.  I  was  not 
young  enough  to  be  ignored,  yet  scarcely  old  enough  to  be  taken 
into  council  without  reserve. 

Nevertheless,  my  mind  docs  not  hesitate  as  to  what  the  opinions 
of  each  \vcre  of  the  desirability  or  otherwise  of  Cooky's  departure 
for  the  East,  nor  to  assign  to  the  lady  a  much  more  well-defined 
opinion  of  its  advantages  than  to  my  father.  My  stepmother 
was,  I  am  satisfied,  a  thorough  worldling  at  heart.  But  that  is  the 
worst  I  have  to  say  of  her.  Sbe  regarded  the  separation  of  these 
two  young  people  as  an  intervention  of  Providence;  an  incident 
which,  brought  about  by  a  human  parent  and  guardian,  would 
have  been,  to  use  nearly  the  same  word  in  a  more  mundane  sense, 
the  merest  prudence.  A  marriage  with  an  Israelite,  who  had 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  315 

not  even  the  quality  persons  of  her  type  always  ascribe  to  Israel- 
ites, videlicet  money-bags,  could  never  be  accepted  as  a  comforta- 
ble settlement  in  life  even  for  a  girl  with  a  limp,  who  could  not 
expect  the  advantages  of  a  complete  article. 

I  have' also  an  impression  that  my  stepmother  said  to  my  father, 
on  some  occasion  undetermined: — "Leave  her  to  me  my  dear! 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know  how  to  manage  a  chit  ? "  and  that  he 
replied : — "  I  don't  suppose  she'll  say  anything.  But  we  shall 
see."  Perhaps  a  fag-end  of  some  conversation  I  stopped. 

Whether  these  fragments  of  memories  are  an  aftergrowth,  of 
the  result  of  disinterments  of  bygones  later,  I  cannot  say.  I 
regard  them  with  suspicion.  All  the  same  I  am  convinced  that 
Jemima  rejoiced  secretly  at  Cooky's  departure,  and  influenced  my 
father  to  a  half-belief  that  a  formidable  and  insuperable  position 
would  have  been  created  had  he  remained.  This  would  not  inter- 
fere with  a  view  I  ascribe  to  him,  that  the  separation  of  a  poten- 
tial Romeo  and  Juliet  might  be  a  useful  trial.  If  their  nascent 
passion  bore  the  strain,  well  and  good!  Then  would  come  the 
time  to  befriend  it.  If  not,  so  be  it! 

There  is  another  thing  of  which  I  am  firmly  convinced.  Gracey 
herself  would  have  been  completely  taken  aback — might  even  have 
been  indignant — had  she  known  the  construction  that  was  being 
placed  on  her  visible  concern  at  Cooky's  military  escapade.  In 
this  she  would  only  have  felt  what  many  another  girl  of  nine- 
teen— in  England  at  least — would  have  felt  in  the  same  circum- 
stances. Add  to  this  that  her  leg  had  been,  as  it  were,  pushed 
home  to  her  by  commiseration  from  Jemima,  and,  as  I  think,  by 
Roberta's  brutal,  or  at  least,  brusque  candour.  By  whom  she 
had  been  told  plainly  that  girls  with  limps  could  not  expect  to 
marry!  Was  she  not  entitled  on  that  very  account,  to  a  pla- 
tonic  friendship  with  an  Ebrew  Jew,  who  would  one  day  wed 
Keziah  or  Keren-happuch,  who  would  be  her  friend,  too.  Gracey 
said  something  of  the  kind  to  me  once,  but  it  hardly  fructi- 
fied in  the  soil  of  my  crude  mind.  I  wonder  at  this  now.  Her 
comment  on  Keren-happuch  or  Keziah  was : — "  She  won't  be  half 
good  enough  for  Monty!"  Why  did  that  not  let  the  cat  out 
of  the  bag?  The  cat  stopped  there,  quite  unsuspected  by  me, 
whatever  my  father  and  stepmother  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
THE  STORY 

ONE  evening,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  were  sitting  together 
over  their  dessert,  the  younger  members  of  the  family  having 
gone  with  a  party  to  the  theater,  Mr.  Pascoe  startled  his  wife 
by  asking  her  abruptly  if  she  had  any  theory  of  her  own  as  to 
how  Cfficilia  came  to  take  that  overdose  of  laudanum?  The 
que'stion  was  such  a  totally  unexpected  one  that  Helen  in  her 
sudden  confusion  dropped  the  glass  she  was  in  the  act  of  rais- 
ing to  her  lips  and  the  ruby  coloured  wine  was  spilled  over  the 
table-cloth.  She  gave  a  little  scream  and  turned  ashy  white. 

"My  love,  what  is  the  matter!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pascoe  in  some 
alarm. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing,  only  you  startled  me  and  made  me 
spill  the  wine.  It  looked  so  like  blood  that  it  gave  me  the 
shudders." 

"  My  dear  child,  what  a  state  your  nerves  are  in !  It  is  that 
dreadful  insomnia  that  is  telling  on  you,"  said  Mr.  Pascoe,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  his  wife's  scared  white  face.  "  I  do  wish  you 
would  see  a  specialist  about  it.  What  did  I  say  that  could  have 
startled  you  so  ?  " 

"Oh,  nothing!  nothing  really!  I  am  rather  jumpy  to-night, 
that  is  all,"  replied  Helen,  nervously.  "  But  why  should  I  have 
any  theory  about  it?  She  just  took  the  overdose  by  mistake,  it 
was  all  settled,  she  must  have  done  that  ages  ago.  What  made 
you  go  back  upon  it  to-night?" 

"  Only  I  was  thinking  of  Gracey,"  answered  Mr.  Pascoe,  look- 
ing uneasily  at  his  wife. 

"Thinking  of  Gracey!  Why,  what  has  she  been  saying?" 
inquired  Helen,  sharply. 

"Gracey!  Oh,  Gracey  has  not  said  anything,  how  should  she? 
What  I  was  thinking  was  ...  no  blame  to  you,  my  dear.  I  am 
sure  you  have  always  done  your  level  best.  But  what  I  was  think- 
ing was  this,  that  if  her  own  mother  had  lived  she  in  all  prob- 
ability would  have  foreseen  this  possible  complication  with  Ne- 
buchadnezzar and  not  allowed  it  to  go  so  far.  Taken  in  time, 
this  sort  of  thing  can  usually  be  prevented." 

316 


THE  STORY  317 

"What  sort  of  thing?    I  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  you  know  Nebuchadnezzar  has  bought  that  commis- 
sion in  the  army  and  is  going  out  to  squelch  the  Indian  mutiny 
for  us." 

"  Well,  but  why  not  ?  " 

"Don't  you  see  that  he  is  merely  running  away  because  he 
being  a  Hebrew  Jew  can't  marry  a  Gentile,  and  that  he  and 
Gracey  are  really  devoted  to  each  other?  It  is  his  mother  who 
objects  so  strongly  to  his  marrying  outside  the  faith,  said  it  would 
kill  her  if  he  did.  So,  at  least,  I  gather  from  Jackey." 

"  Then  does  Jackey  know  all  about  it?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pascoe. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!  Blind  as  any  bat  on  the  subject!  Thinks  Cooky 
wants  to  be  a  soldier  and  fight,  and  that  that's  why  he  is  going 
away." 

"  Well,"  said  Helen,  unsympathetically,  "  I  suppose  it  is  the 
best  thing  he  can  do  under  the  circumstances.  They  will  get 
over  it,  they  are  both  so  young.  It  does  not  really  matter  much 
that  I  can  see." 

Something  in  his  wife's  manner  jarred  on  Mr.  Pascoe,  and  he 
said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but  later  on  in  the  evening,  as  he 
sat  alone  over  his  pipe,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  it.  Yes,  certainly, 
he  would  have  liked  Cooky  better  if  he  had  rebelled  against  that 
verdict  of  Judaism.  Was  it  not  sacrificing  two  fresh  young  lives 
on  the  altar  of  superstition? 

Helen  had  said  that  they  would  soon  forget  it.  But  would 
they?  Caecilia  had  clearly  not  forgotten  her  first  love,  Jack 
Emery!  Would  her  history  be  repeated  in  that  of  her  daughter? 
If  Gracey 's  mother  had  lived  all  would  probably  have  gone  dif- 
ferently. No,  he  did  not  blame  Helen  in  the  least,  but  she  evi- 
dently had  not  been  alive  to  the  danger  attending  this  intimacy 
with  Jackey's  chum!  In  fact,  even  now  she  did  not  take  this 
boy  and  girl  love  seriously!  How  should  she?  It  was  that 
letter  of  Caecilia's,  written  years  ago,  that  had  opened  his  eyes 
to  what  a  youthful  attachment  might  possibly  mean  in  a  girl's 
life,  and  he  felt  confident  that  in  this  case  a  mother's  watchful 
care  might  have  saved  Gracey  from  a  similar  heartbreak.  Then 
his  thoughts  wandered  back  to  that  tragic  death  in  Mecklenburg 
Square.  How  came  Ctecilia  to  have  taken  that  overdose?  Had 
the  pain  returned  with  such  violence  that  she  could  not  even 
wait  to  ring  for  Varnish  to  come  and  give  her  the  medicine?  It 
was  all  so  unlike  her!  She  had  invariably  rung  before  when  she 
needed  anything.  ...  In  fact,  it  was  her  natural  instinct  always 
to  insist  on  being  waited  upon  rather  than  do  anything  for  her- 


318  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

self;  besides,  to  get  at  the  medicine  she  must  have  had  to  get  out 
of  bed,  and  the  doctor's  orders  had  been  emphatic  that  she  was 
to  lie  quite  still!  .  .  .  She  had  always  shown  herself  particu- 
larly anxious  to  carry  out  his  instructions  implicitly.  No,  he 
could  not  understand  it!  ...  Unless!  !  but  he  thrust  the  idea 
resolutely  from  his  mind.  No,  that  was  out  of  the  question,  quite 
impossible!  She  could  not  have  wished  to  end  her  days  by  her 
own  hand.  She  was  far  too  good,  too  Christian  a  woman  for 
that,  besides,  why  should  she?  All  was  going  well  with  them. 
Her  attack  of  illness,  Dr.  Hammond  had  assured  them  both 
that  very  morning,  was  entirely  of  zt  temporary  nature,  requiring 
care,  very  great  care,  if  it  came  to  that!  but  not  of  a  nature  to 
create  a  panic  in  the  mind  of  the  sufferer!  .  .  .  True,  they  had 
had  a  dispute  the  night  before,  but  Mr.  Pascoe  could  recall  nothing 
that  had  taken  place  between  them  that  differed  very  much  from 
many  a  previous  discussion  on  the  same  topic.  Besides,  he  had 
never  said  definitely  that  he  would  not  give  up  his  post  at  Som- 
erset House.  He  had  merely  insisted  on  the  desirability  of 
retaining  it.  No  doubt,  the  discussion  had  been  bad  for  her 
in  her  then  condition,  but  as  for  there  having  been  anything 
whatever  between  them  to  give  rise  on  her  part  to  a  desire  for 
self-destruction  it  was  simply  ridiculous  to  entertain  the  idea 
for  a  moment.  .  .  .  No,  on  that  score  he  could  set  his  mind 
at  rest.  But  it  all  remained  very  unaccountable!  very  unaccount- 
able, indeed!  !  !  And  Mr.  Pascoe  puffed  away  at  his  pipe!  But 
he  got  no  nearer  to  solving  the  mystery. 


CHAPTEK  XXXII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

THE  day  of  Cooky's  final  farewell  was  near  at  Hand.  It  was 
on  the  occasion  of  his  penultimate  visit  to  J'he  Ketreat  that  he 
said  to  me : — u  Suppose  we  go  to-morrow,  little  Buttons,  and  have 
a  look  at  your  old  crib  ?  Just  an  idea  of  mine !  I've  a  fancy  for 
it."  I  acceded  at  once,  and  further  expressed  an  opinion  that 
to  do  so  would  be  rather  a  lark.  I  had  no  such  view,  but  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  it  was  a  good  thing  to  say.  More  particularly 
because  reference  had  been  more  than  once  made  to  the  desira- 
bility of  putting  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and  on  no  account 
repining.  The  exact  expression  used  was  "  grizzling." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  on  the  afternoon  of  next  day  our  boy 
at  Slocum's  put  his  head  in  at  the  school  door  to  announce  that 
a  party  wanted  Mr.  Pascoe,  but  would  wait  outside.  He  thought 
it  necessary  to  add: — "He  ain't  a  moddle;"  that  being  the  only 
way  discrimination  of  class  was  possible  to  his  lack  of  social 
experience.  This  boy  was  generally  known  as  Young  Stomach 
Ache,  owing  to  an  occasion  on  which  he  was  detained  at  home, 
when  his  mother,  to  justify  his  absence,  produced  a  doctor's  pre- 
scription which  referred  to  chalk. 

Mr.  Slocum  himself  was  sitting  on  my  box,  looking  at  my 
drawing,  rattling  currency  in  his  breeches-pocket.  He  was  always 
rather  at  a  loss  what  to  say  about  his  pupils'  performances,  so  he 
rattled  the  sum  at  his  disposal  in  his  pocket,  and  began  whist- 
ling "  Molly  Maloney,"  but  never  got  to  the  second  line.  This 
time  he  produced  a  spurious  appearance  of  having  stopped  sud- 
denly, by  saying  at  the  end  of  the  first: — ''  That's  dirt,  not  shadow! 
You'll  have  to  bread  a  lot  of  that  out."  This  question,  which  was 
dirt  and  which  was  shadow,  in  drawings,  often  gave  rise  to  dis- 
putes, and  even  to  words.  At  this  point  Young  Stomach  Ache's 
announcement  caused  Mr.  Slocum  to  say : — u  Friend  of  Mr.  Cope- 
stake?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  meant  Pascoe;  I  didn't  mean  Copestake. 
"Why  didn't  you  show  him  in.  Reginald?"  Which  reminds  me 
that,  though  this  boy  flashed  across  my  memory  as  Young  Stomach 
Ache,  his  real  name  was  Reginald. 

Cooky  was  then  shown  in,  and  was  nodded  to  by  Mr.  Slocum, 

319 


320  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

who  went  away  to  discriminate  dirt  and  shadow  elsewhere.  I 
think  it  was  always  a  parti  pris  -with  him  to  hold  aloof  from  his 
students'  visitors.  I  can't  fancy  him  doing  anything  else. 

I  made  an  effort  to  impress  Cook'y  with  the  Fine  Arts,  by  show- 
ing him  the  School,  and  I  think  he  made  an  effort  to  seem  im- 
pressed. But  the  Stars  in  their  Courses  fought  against  me,  taking 
to  a  great  extent  the  form  of  my  friend  '  Opkins,  whom  I  intro- 
duced. For  when  Cooky,  to  make  talk  I  suppose,  remarked  that 
Art  Chaps  always  seemed  to  him  to  be  taking  their  time,  '  Opkins 
said  with  some  dignity : — "  '  Urry  is  contry  to  the  Spirit  of  Art." 
And  dignity  is  fatafto  social  intercourse.  So  in  spite  of  my  in- 
vitations to  him  to  say  respectful  things  of  Slocum's,  Cooky 
evaded  the  point,  or  only  yielded  the  most  perfunctory  acknowl- 
edgments of  its  greatness. 

Beyond  remarking  that  all  the  draughtsmen  seemed  to  him  to 
be  fishing,  only  that  their  lines  had  no  rods,  and  eliciting  from 
me  some  explanation  of  the  use  and  beauty  of  the  plumb-bob, 
my  friend  said  little,  seeming  absent  and  preoccupied.  He  con- 
tinued so  as  far  as  Russell  Square,  on  the  borders  of  my  old 
neighbourhood — as  my  mind  has  always  recognized  it — the  zone  of 
the  Foundling  Hospital.  It  had  not  changed,  of  course.  Did 
it  ever  change,  in  those  days?  It  has  changed,  now,  I  know,  and 
the  street-lamps  are  incandescent;  or,  even  worse,  electric.  In 
the  fifties  they  were  really  gas,  and  danced  and  flickered  in  the 
wind,  or  showed  as  yellow  spots  through  the  fog-bound  stillness 
of  the  winter  gloom,  and  were  lighted  by  lamp-lighters,  with  lad- 
ders. There  is  a  railway-station  now,  that  says  it  is  Russell  Square 
Station,  and  I  suppose  it  knows.  When  I  was  last  there,  some 
twenty  years  since,  although  the  Square  was  breaking  out  as 
Hotels  and  useful  Institutions,  the  tramp  of  horses  was  merry 
in  the  streets,  and  the  hansom  cabmen  still — even  as  in  the 
days  of  Varnish,  who  attested  the  fact — called  each  other  bad 
language  from  box  to  box,  and  deemed  every  fare  too  small.  By 
now,  as  I  infer,  the  music  of  the  horses'  feet  is  heard  no  more, 
and  the  ears  of  foot-passengers  are  jarred,  and  their  sense  of 
all  propriety  outraged,  by  every  variety  of  sound  a  motors  bad 
taste  can  indulge  in.  But  I  am  told  the  streets  are  cleaner.  That 
is  a  set-off,  although  we  did  not  complain,  in  my  time. 

But  what  have  I,  lying  here  awaiting  the  end,  to  do  with  this 
new  world  that  is  without?  Let  me  look  back,  a  failing  mind 
that  catches  at  every  straw  in  that  remote  past,  to  help  to  better 
memory,  and  write  down  what  I  may,  before  it  fails  outright.  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  recall  that  last  expedition  to  the  Square — our 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  321 

last  expedition,  I  should  say;  for  I  did  go  there  again,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  many  years  later. 

Getting  near  the  zone  of  the  Foundling  Hospital,  we  discerned 
landmarks.  "  I  wonder  who  the  black  statue's  of,  Cooky,"  said 
I,  neglecting  formal  English  construction. 

Cooky  understood.  "  Stupid  little  Buttons !  "  said  he.  "  Fancy 
your  living  close  by,  all  those  years,  and  not  finding  that  out." 

"  I  asked  the  Governor." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"  Said  it  wasn't  Beelzebub." 

"  Well — it  isn't.  So  he  was  right,  so  far.  But  such  a  lot  of 
things  are  not.  This  one's  the  Duke  that  made  the  Square.  It 
takes  a  Duke  to  make  a  Square." 

I  became  diffuse.  ''I  say,  Cooky!  I  wonder  whether  the  iron 
roller's  still  in  our  Square,  where  we''re  going?" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be?  Rollers  in  Squares  don't  pay  to  run 
away  with.  Ask  any  thief.  Why  the  iron  roller?" 

"  Because  this.  An  awfully  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  a  small 
kid,  there  was  a  little  girl." 

"  Instead  of  the  roller  ?  " 

"  No — shut  up !  She  came  out  of  a  house  opposite,  and  Var- 
nish let  me  play  with  her.  Ada  was  her  name." 

"  But  the  roller — the  roller !     How  does  the  roller  come  in  ?  " 

"Why — look  here!  You  know  how  roller-handles  go?  They 
won't  stop  on  the  ground.  .  .  .  Well — we  played  at  seeing  how 
long  it  would  go  on.  And  one  time  it  caught  Ada's  nose  because 
I  started  it  too  fierce,  and  it  had  to  be  done  with  plaster.  Her 
nose  had,  not  the  handle." 

'*  Well,  Buttons,  I  won't  disguise  it  from  you.  I  think  that 
a  very  flat  story." 

"  Can't  help  it,  Cooky,  it's  true.  I  wonder  if  old  Scammony 
is  going  on  here  still."  For  we  were  in  Bernard  Street,  ap- 
proaching the  doctor's  house. 

"Dr.  Hammond?  Why  shouldn't  he  be?  It  isn't  five  years 
yet,  and  you  talk  as  if  it  was  a  thousand." 

l<  Well — it  seems  a  thousand.  Suppose  we  go  across  and  read 
his  doorplate!"  A  harmless  suggestion,  even  if  it  had  no  appar- 
ent purpose.  I  made  it  without  anticipating  any  change  in  the 
text.  We  found  one.  however.  A  name  had  been  added : — "  Mr. 
Parminter  Harris,  M.  R.  C.  S."  Dr.  Scammony  had  got  a  partner. 

I  suppose  we  were  blocking  the  way.  as  we  stood  digesting  this 
information,  for  a  gentleman  coming  up  behind  us  said.  "  Excuse 
me ! ?'  and  turning  round  I  saw  the  owner  of  the  spectacles  and 


322  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

the  indented  cheek  who  had  come  with  Dr.  Scammony  when  my 
mother  died — he  who  had  the  stomach  pump  in  charge.  I  had 
only  seen  him  then  for  a  moment.  But  he  was  a  very  unmis- 
takable person,  all  the  more  that  'he  apparently  had  on  the  self- 
same plaid  wrapper. 

"  All  right — beg  your  pardon !  "  said  he.  Then,  on  the  door- 
step, before  using  his  latch-key : — "  What  Dr.  Hammond  ?  He's 
out.  Can  I  give  you  a  dose  of  anything?  You've  got  nothing 
the  matter  with  you." 

We  both  said : — "  Nothing  whatever."  And  I  added,  meaning 
my  remark  to  be  conservative : — "  Only  Dr.  Hammond  used  to 
attend  on  my  family."  To  which  Mr.  Parminter  Harris  said, 
"  Oh — ah !  "  in  a  convinced  sort  of  way,  as  if  it  was  quite  natural 
and  right  for  ex-patients  to  come  and  browse,  as  it  were,  on 
the  doorstep  of  a  former  medical  adviser,  without  symptoms. 

I  suppose  Cooky  felt  that  illumination  was  called  for,  for  he 
said : — "  My  young  friend's  father  lived  close  by  here,  and  Dr. 
Hammond  attended  his  mother  when  she  died.  About  five  years 
ago." 

"Name  was ?"  said  Mr.  Parminter  Harris. 

"Pascoe — Mecklenburg  Square.   ..." 

Mr.  Harris  jerked  the  forefinger  of  his  latch-key  holding  hand 
at  Cooky,  and  nodded  apprehension,  six  times  at  least.  "  I  know — 
I  know — I  know,"  said  he.  "Poison  case!" 

I  quarrelled  with  the  exaggeration,  mentally.  So,  I  think,  did 
Cooky,  for  he  said  in  a  deprecating  way: — "Are  we — a — sure 
we  are  speaking  of  the  same  case?" 

"Oh  yes — no  mistake  at  all!  Pascoe,  Mecklenburg  Square. 
Only — stop  a  minute! — you're  right.  Overdose  of  laudanum.  I 
shouldn't  have  said  '  poison  case.'  Overdose  of  laudanum,  cer- 
tainly." 

Cooky  said,  as  one  with  great  deference  for  the  profession : — 
"It  is  important,  isn't  it?"  And  I  said,  in  a  side  alley. — "She 
took  it  herself." 

"Right  you  are!  Quite  right!— took  it  herself.  Careless  speech 
of  mine — more  careful  another  time!"  He  spoke  as  if  the  same 
thing  might  come  about  again,  in  the  natural  order  of  events; 
then  added,  explanatorily : — "  Case  would  rank  as  a  poison  case 
with  us,  you  see,  just  the  same.  Toxic  action  identical.  But 
you're  quite  right.  Very  important  distinction.  Do  you  wish 
to  see  Dr.  Hammond?  He  may  be  home  any  time." 

No,  we  didn't  wish  to  see  Dr.  Hammond.  But  we  tacitly  agreed 
that  we  might  safely  leave  my  father's  kind  regards  for  him  to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  323 

bask  in,  and  did  so.  I  said  good  evening,  and  started  to  go  on. 
I  felt  nettled  with  the  medical  gentleman.  Cooky  remained 
one  moment,  detained  by  a  parting  word. 

"Rather  cool,  that,  Cooky!"  said  I,  as  we  got  out  of  hearing. 

"What  was  cool?" 

"Why,  talking  about  a  poison  case!  What  was  that  he  was 
saying  to  you  ?  What  was  he  saying  he  '  thought  so '  about  ? " 
For  this  phrase  had  reached  me  with  a  flavour  of  something  like 
impertinence  in  it. 

"  Oh — nothing !     At  least,  nothing  particular." 

"But  what?" 

"  He  only  said  he  had  heard  your  father  married  again,  and 
wanted  to  know  who.  '  Wasn't  it  the  governess '  ?  "  He  repeated 
the  doctor's  words. 

"  He  is  a  cool  beggar.  What  concern  was  it  of  his?  I  sup- 
pose you  told  him?  .  .  .  Well — all  T  can  say  is,  I  hope  he'll 
catch  it  hot  from  little  Scammony,  if  he  tells  him." 

"  Doctors  get  like  that,"  said  Cooky,  to  dismiss  him.  And 
I  acquiesced  in  his  dismissal. 

I  suppose  the  fact  was  that  this  Mr.  Harris  really  remem- 
bered something  of  the  case,  and  wanted  to  make  himself  of 
importance  by  seeming  to  remember  more.  I  might  easily  have 
forgotten  the  fact  that  we  spoke  with  him  that  day  in  Bernard 
Street,  if  this  effort  on  his  part  had  not  caused  him  to  use  an 
unfortunate  phrase,  which  as  good  as  suggested  a  suspicion  of 
foul  play. 

It  was  strange  to  stand  there  outside  the  old  home  T  knew 
so  well  the  inner  soul  of,  with  the  schoolfellow  that  had  so 
often  bid  me  farewell  on  its  very  doorstep — there  before  us  un- 
changed!— and  to  be  deprived  of  all  right  to  enter,  by  usurpers 
in  possession.  What  right  had  they  there?  What  right  could 
they  have,  compared  with  mine?  I  asked  this  question  indig- 
nantly of  my  friend,  who  suggested  a  view  of  the  case  that  I 
confess  had  never  struck  me — how  about  the  occupants  who  turned 
out  to  make  way  for  my  family,  or  at  least  for  its  first  two 
members,  and  joint  originators?  "They  were  not  born  there," 
said  I,  rashly  jumping  at  what  seemed  a  plausible  answer.  To 
which  Cooky  reasonably  replied : — "  How  the  dickens  do  you 
know  that,  little  Buttons  ? "  I  did  not  know  it,  and  had  to 
say  so. 

We  watched  the  house  from  the  other  side  of  the  way,  stand- 
ing against  the  well-remembered  Square  palings  of  my  youth, 
and  I  tried  to  devise  some  plausible  excuse  for  knocking  at  the 


324  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

door  and  getting  a  peep  inside.  I  suggested  that  we  should  do 
so  and  ask  if  some  one  with  an  impossible  name  lived  there. 
Cooky  said  did  I  know  an  impossible  name?  Because  one  of 
his  sisters  had  tried  that  game.  She  had  knocked  very  loud  at 
a  wrong  door  by  mistake,  and  instead  of  telling  the  truth,  must 
needs  think  to  escape  contumely  by  asking  if  Mrs.  Marmaduke 
Watkins  was  at  home,  and  was  horrified  when  the  menial  threw 
the  door  wide,  as  for  a  troop  of  cavalry  to  ride  in,  and  betrayed 
her  into  the  hands  of  a  succession  of  liveries,  who  showed  her 
upstairs,  helpless,  into  a  salon,  of  dimensions. 

"What  did  she  do?"  I   asked. 

"  She  confessed  up,"  said  Cooky.  "  Told  the  whole  truth,  and 
was  not  only  forgiven,  but  asked  whether  her  family  were  Mosses 
of  Grindstone." 

"  Well,  Cooky,"  said  I,  "  I  vote  that  we  knock  and  ask  if  Mrs. 
Marmaduke  Watkins  is  at  home,  because  twice  is  impossible." 
I  think  I  derived  this  idea  from  the  man  who  thought  his  head 
would  be  safe  in  the  hole  a  cannon-ball  had  made.  After  con- 
sideration, Cooky  said: — u  Suppose  we  risk  it!" 

Agreed.  He  knocked  genteelly;  and  I,  seeing  a  brass-plate 
with  "  Ring  also,"  rang  also.  The  door  was  answered  by  a  cor- 
pulent cook  or  housekeeper  who  protruded  very  nearly  to  us  as 
she  stood  on  the  threshold.  A  momentary  qualm  which  seized 
us  both  after  ringing — for  might  not  the  impossible  have  hap- 
pened?— was  relieved  on  hearing  that  this  was  Mr.  Hawkins's; 
or  Miss  Trawkins's.  it  was  impossible  to  say  which.  We  breathed 
freely,  and  could  look  inside. 

My  eyes  went  at  once  to  see  whether  a  new  letter-box  had  re- 
placed ours — the  one  I  mean  where  the  lost  letters  were  found, 
on  the  day  we  came  away.  The  panelling  of  the  wainscot  had 
been  made  good,  but  the  indeterminate  owner  had  not  renewed 
the  letter-box.  He,  or  she.  fell  in  my  opinion.  I  saw  that  the 
walls  had  been  covered  with  marbled  paper,  showing  to  my  thought 
a  degraded  taste.  Numerous  water  colours  were  dotted  about,  of 
a  class  I  despised,  which  I  perceived  to  be,  broadly,  watennills, 
coast  scenes  with  trawlers  going  to  sea,  and  a  cattle  at  sun- 
set. I  decided  that  the  owner  was  Miss  Trawkins,  and  that 
these  were  her  production.  How  dared  she  desecrate  our  walls 
with  her  rubbish? 

If  the  ample  housekeeper  had  not  yearned  to  be  useful  to 
her  species,  we  could  have  begged  pardon  and  come  away.  But 
she  was  seized  with  anxiety  to  be  of  service  to  us.  First,  she 
clung  to  the  idea  that  her  house  was  really  the  one  we  wanted. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  325 

and  that  she  could  satisfy  us  if  only  we  would  consent  to  an 
emendation  of  our  text.  "  Are  you  sure  the  name  was  not  'Aw- 
kins?"  said  she,  causing  me  to  give  up  Miss  Trawkins  as  use- 
less. Cooky  was  quite  sure — said  it  must  be  Marmaduke  Watkins 
or  nothing.  No  compromise  was  possible. 

Had  we  tried  thirty-two?  No — we  had  not.  Would  she  on  the 
whole  recommend  us  to  try  thirty-two  ?  "  There  ain't,"  said  she, 
"no  'arm  in  tryin',  seein'  there  went  so  little  trouble  just  to 
make  the  inquiry.  But  now  she  come  to  think  of  it,  the  name  at 
thirty-two  was  Medlicott."  This  was  a  damper,  or  would  have 
been,  had  our  position  been  a  bona  fide  one.  As  it  was,  we 
stood  committed  to  research  at  any  house  not  definitely  assigna- 
ble to  another  than  Watkins.  Such  a  house,  said  our  informant, 
was  number  twenty-seven.  Not  that  she  had  a  word  against  the 
occupants.  They  might  be  most  respectable  and  well-to-do,  but  if 
you  come  to  their  names,  their  names  she  could  not  tell,  not 
if  you  was  to  break  every  bone  in  her  body.  No  such  course 
had  been  hinted  at.  Cooky  said,  turning  to  me: — "Suppose  we 
try?"  And  so  completely  had  I  lived  myself  into  the  part,  that 
I  replied : — "  Yes — just  this  one  more,  and  then  gave  it  up  as 
a  bad  job." 

I  had  nourished  a  hope  that  the  ample  one  would  be  content 
to  dismiss  us  with  her  Blessing,  and  leave  it  open  to  us  to  depart, 
without  knocking  at  number  twenty-seven.  But  her  benevolent 
interest  would  not  permit  her  to  leave  us  until  she  had  seen 
the  result  of  our  application.  She  came  out  on  the  pavement — 
even  on  the  roadway,  to  get  a  better  view — and  watched  for  the 
outcome,  urging  us  to  knock  very  frequently,  which  proved  nec- 
essary. It  was  rather  an  embarrassing  experience,  to  be  as  it 
were  pinioned  to  the  task  of  knocking  at  a  door  we  were  not 
correlated  to.  to  make  an  insincere  inquiry.  At  one  time  it 
seemed  as  if  we  should  continue  doing  so  sine  die,  if  the  tenacity 
of  the  good  lady  held  out;  but  in  the  end  a  peppery  edgy  person 
opened  the  door  six  inches  and  said,  "  Hay?  Who  do  you  want?" 
and  then  to  our  question.  "  Does  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Watkins  live 
here?"  replied,  "No — that  she  don't!"  and  shut  it  with 
acerbity. 

I  hare  to  account  to  myself  for  what  followed,  and  find  I  can 
only  do  it  by  recalling  all  these  trivial  details.  As  we  fell  away 
from  No.  27,  hoping  to  shake  free  of  our  adviser,  it  became  evi- 
dent that  she  did  not  intend  us  to  do  so,  approaching  us  and  cut- 
ting us  off  from  the  nearest  avenue  of  escape.  I  murmured  to 
Cooky: — "Pretend  it's  the  wrong  Square."  He  welcomed  the 


326  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

idea,  and  acted  on  it,  saying  we  had  been  under  the  impression 
we  were  in  Brunswick  Square. 

No  expression  of  intense  enlightenment  was  ever  so  prolonged 
as  the  ejaculation  of  the  good  lady.  There  now!  If  we  had 
only  a  said  Brunswick  she  would  have  known  where  she  was. 
Under  those  circumstances  untold  gold  would  not  have  induced  her 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  was  in  absolute  ignorance  of  the 
names  of  the  occupants  of  Brunswick  Square.  She  seemed  proud 
of  this  ignorance,  but  I  cannot  tell  why.  She  dwelt  upon  it  at 
unnecessary  length,  and  would  never  have  stopped,  I  believe,  if 
a  strong  smell  of  a  chimney  on  fire  had  not  asserted  itself,  and 
taken  her  mind  off.  . 

It  is  commonly  thought,  by  any  person  who  smells  a  chimney 
on  fire,  that  it  is  some  one  else's  chimney.  The  stout  cook  shared 
this  impression,  and  was  at  ease.  "  Not  but  what,"  she  said,  "  all 
are  liable,  and  it  might  easy  have  been  ours,  I  do  admit.  Only 
being  swep'  by  contrack,  by  my  advice  and  a  new  rule  since  I 
come,  and  doubtful  if  satisfactory  to  the  Missis,  my  ketching 
chimney  is  out  of  the  question,  as  you  might  say." 

Nevertheless,  on  stepping  back  across  the  road  to  assign  its 
source  to  a  volume  of  very  thick,  dirty  white  smoke  which  came 
with  a  rush  down  the  front  of  the  house,  it  was  perfectly  clear 
to  us  where  it  came  from.  "  That's  our  kitchen  chimney,  Cooky," 
said  I,  and  I  believe  the  fat  one  conceived  that  this  speech  was 
youthful  impertinence.  She  had,  however,  other  business  on 
hand — the  defence  of  her  system.  "  Why,  it  was  only  swep'  the 
other  day,  just  after  the  family  left,  and  them  expected  any  minute! 
And  by  contrack!"  The  frequency  of  chimney-fires  immediately 
after  the  sweep's  visit  raises  the  question  of  whether  chimney- 
sweeping  is  a  safe  practice. 

The  good  woman's  policy  was  one  of  no  surrender,  even  to  con- 
futation itself.  She  went  away  to  acquaint  next  door  that  their 
chimney  was  afire,  and  they  might  get  the  engines  if  they  liked, 
only  there  was  no  'urry,  because  they  always  come  of  their- 
selves  if  let  alone.  She  got  involved  in  argument  with  next  door, 
whose  parlourmaid  undertook  to  establish  a  negation  that  their 
chimney  was  not  on  fire,  while  she  herself  maintained  that  it 
must  be,  because  of  the  impossibility  of  her  own  chimney  being 
the  guilty  one.  At  this  juncture  an  idea  crossed  my  friend's  mind. 
Why  should  we  not  seize  the  opportunity  the  fire  afforded  of  get- 
ting a  sight  of  the  interior  of  the  old  house?  Fire  justifies  intru- 
sion, or  at  least  palliates  it. 

I  jumped  at  the  suggestion.     Calling  out  to  the  disputants: — 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  327 

"  It  is  here,  and  if  it  isn't  put  out  you'll  have  the  house  on  fire," 
we  went  straight  in  at  the  still  open  door  and  down  into  the 
kitchen,  so  quickly  that  when  the  fat  cook,  who  followed  us, 
arrived  panting,  and  mixing  protest  with  gratitude  of  a  sort, 
Cooky  and  I  were  standing  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace,  holding 
an  outstretched  square  of  carpet  across  it  to  stifle  the  draught,  to 
the  great  admiration  of  a  young  woman  who  seemed  at  first  to 
be  the  only  person  in  the  house  except  herself.  There  was,  how- 
ever, one  other,  as  appeared  presently — an  old  acquaintance  of 
mine. 

The  fire-brigade  came  of  itself,  but  prophylactically.  It  set- 
tled down  outside,  and  hatched  the  scene  of  the  disaster;  abetted, 
or  hindered  as  might  be,  by  boys,  who  explained  to  one  another 
the  details  of  fire-engines,  being  themselves  unacquainted  there- 
with. Its  representative  came  in  and  went  upstairs,  to  make 
sure  the  fire  had  kept  inside  the  chimney. 

It  is,  I  believe,  generally  known  that  there  are  two  schools  of 
fire-extinction,  at  least  as  regards  chimneys.  One  of  these  schools 
considers  that  the  true  aim  of  its  operations  should  be  to  sup- 
press combustion  in  the  flue  at  all  costs.  The  other  that  it  should 
circumscribe  to  the  utmost  the  natural  desire  of  burning  soot 
to  set  alight  to  everything  else,  but  should  fool  it  to  the  top 
of  its  bent  so  long  as  it  made  no  effort  to  get  outside  its  allotted 
field  of  operations.  The  former  school  will  risk  its  life  on  sloping 
roofs  to  hold  a  sack  down  over  a  blazing  chimney;  while  its 
acolytes,  myrmidons,  or  casual  allies  endeavour  to  hermetically 
seal  the  flue  below  with  carpets  or  blankets  or  periodicals.  The 
succour  attempted  by  Cooky  and  myself  was  an  adoption  of  its 
tenets.  But  the  brigade  leaned  towards  those  of  the  latter  school. 

"That  don't  do  any  good!"  was  its  opinion  of  our  efforts. 
"  You'll  only  keep  it  on  hand  longer.  A  bit  of  fire  in  the  flue 
don't  matter  any  so  much,  so  long  as  there's  no  timber  in  the 
chimney."  Its  exponent  added  that  the  upstairs  wall  was  noth- 
ing out  of  the  way  hot,  and  one  of  his  mates  moreover  was  keep- 
ing an  eye  on  it.  So  we  discontinued  our  efforts,  and  he  settled 
down  peacefully  to  make  a  report,  after  a  last  word : — "  Not  the 
first  time  this  flue's  been  alight,  by  many!" 

It  was  then  that  I  became  aware  that  a  face  I  knew  had  appeared 
out  of  the  back  wash'us,  or  some  cellar  beyond.  It  was  a  face 
that  made  me  seriously  doubt  whether  I  was  not  asleep  and  dream- 
ing. It  was  so  very  strange  to  be  in  the  kitchen  of  our  old  house, 
with  The  Man,  Freeman,  there  in  the  flesh  before  me.  For  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  his  identity.  Shrunk,  and  abated,  somewhat 


328  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

redder  about  the  nose,  and  shabbier  in  garments  mysteriously 
identical  with  those  I  had  known  him  in  five  years  ago,  he  was 
the  same  Man,  beyond  a  doubt.  The  same  aroma,  or  flavour  of 
beer  as  of  old  clung  to  him,  and  seemed,  strangely  enough,  to 
have  its  share  in  producing  the  hallucination  that  he  was  sober 
and  steady.  He  was  greyer,  surely,  since  my  day  in  the  Square, 
and  baldness  was  just  feeling  for  a  place  at  the  top  of  his  head. 
Both  these  changes  tended  to  produce  an  impression — a  very 
vague  one — that  their  subject  was  a  Member  of  a  Denomination. 
It  also  struck  me  that  he  abased  himself  more  than  formerly,  as 
he  addressed  me,  which  he  did  as  soon  as  I  caught  his  eye. 

"  Master  Eustace — excusin'  me  if  mistook — only  the  many  times 
I've  blacked  your  boots!  And  sim'lar  Master  Moss,  if  I  might 

make  so  bold "     We  both  whistled  astonishment  and  looked 

at  each  other.  We  managed  to  say  conjointly,  somehow,  that 
if  this  wasn't  Freeman,  we  were  blest,  or  would  be  hanged — I 
forget  which. 

Neither  was  our  immediate  destiny.  For  it  was  Freeman,  ask- 
ing after  The  Master,  meaning  my  father.  And  I  became  aware 
that  he  had  established  himself  on  the  same  footing  with  the 
new  tenants,  as  formerly  with  my  own  family,  by  overhearing  the 
words :— "  Well,  I  declare  if  he  ain't  talking  to  The  Man !  "  And 
yet  I  don't  believe  he  had  ever  specifically  laid  claim  to  the  des- 
ignation. 

I  did  not  talk  to  The  Man  at  great  length,  not  feeling  certain 
how  much  affection  I  was  bound  to  show  to  him.  He  referred 
to  his  indebtedness  to  my  father,  to  whose  certificate  of  his  hon- 
esty and  sobriety  he  owed  his  present  position.  Not  but  what 
some  might  'old  he  went  with  the  'ouse,  after  such  a  many  years. 
But  he  was  making  no  claim,  from  constitutional  modesty.  My 
fathers  letter  seemed  to  have  been  accepted  as  a  guarantee  of  its 
subject's  temperance,  without  critical  analysis.  It  said  he  had 
"become  a  teetotaller  fifteen  years  ago,"  which  was  true.  But 
it  should  have  added  that  he  had  become  a  teetotaller  several 
times  since,  having,  of  course,  each  time  qualified  for  doing  so 
in  'the  interim. 

The  stout  cook  seemed  only  capable  of  receiving  one  idea  at 
a  time,  and  had  allotted  to  us  the  character  of  frustrated  seekers 
for  Mrs.  Marmaduke  Watkins.  So  whether  she  knew  then,  or 
came  to  know  later,  that  the  house  was  the  home  of  my  boyhood, 
I  cannot  say.  The  fireman,  after  jotting  down  some  memoranda 
for  his  official  report,  said — as  though  another  fire  expected  him — 
that  it  was  about  time  he  was  hooking  it.  but  that  before  he  did 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  329 

so  he  would  run  upstairs  and  have  a  look  at  how  his  mate  was 
going  on. 

This  was  too  good  an  opportunity  for  us  to  lose  of  seeing  the  old 
familiar  upper  regions  again;  so,  as  no  opposition  was  offered  to 
our  doing  so,  we  followed  him,  and  were  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Freeman,  who  seemed  to  assume  a  proprietorship  in  the  house;  in 
fact,  to  become  a  kind  of  representative  of  Mr.  Hawkins,  who- 
ever he  was. 

The  fireman's  mate  was  eating  an  apple  and  looking  out  of 
the  front  attic  window.  What  he  said  was,  "  It  don't  work  out 
anywhere.  I've  had  a  look  on  the  roof,"  but  seemed  preoccupied 
with  the  apple.  The  other  walked  about  the  wall  with  his  hands, 
hunting  for  developments  of  heat.  "  Don't  come  to  much !  "  was 
his  comment. 

Mr.  Freeman  indicated,  by  a  succession  of  nods,  and  a  visible 
practice  of  silence,  that  he  could  disclose  volumes  if  he  chose. 
The  fireman  invited  him  to  speech  indirectly,  in  the  words: — 
"  Don't  holler  too  loud,  or  I  shan't  hear  what  you  say."  Where- 
upon Mr.  Freeman  replied  substantially,  that  he  had  been  in  the 
confidence  of  that  kitchen  chimney  for  twenty  years  past ;  and 
barring  once,  follerin'  on  a  new  cook,  it  had  discharged  its  duty 
efficiently,  and  its  smoke  into  the  zenith,  and  never  so  much  as 
catched  alight  once.  Further,  he  could  testify  that  after  this 
exceptional  lapse,  the  wall  had  been  examined  by  a  builder,  to 
remove  a  joist  that  had  scorched,  being  too  near  the  live  sut  in 
the  flue.  He  put  in  a  trimmer  to  make  good,  did  that  builder; 
and  if  there  warn't  a  box  stood  on  the  place,  the  observant  eye 
might  trace  his  handiwork  by  the  run  of  the  nails  on  the  floor- 
board. 

The  word  of  the  senior  fireman  to  the  apple-eater  was  "  ketch 
hold !  "  and  the  box  was  elsewhere  instantly.  I  don't  think  the 
apple  was  lost;  it  stood  over.  The  floor  proved  to  be  as  described 
and  the  fireman  admitted  that  Mr.  Freeman  was  right,  though  by 
some  unaccountable  accident.  He  departed,  leaving  his  mate  on 
guard,  and  we  went  downstairs.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  I  had  not 
noticed  at  the  time  an  extraordinary  resemblance  of  the  box  to  the 
celebrated  box  from  which  Mr.  Freeman  had  unpacked  Euterpe 
and  Calliope.  But  not  quite  sure.  Because  my  powers  of  recog- 
nizing it  were  paralyzed  by  the  a  priori  subconscious  certainty 
that  it  could  not  be  that  box,  strangling  the  entry  of  the  percep- 
tion to  my  mind  on  its  threshold,  that  it  was. 

It  was  strange  and  uncomfortable  to  look  in  at  old  rooms 
I  remembered  so  well — for  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 


330  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

do  so,  and  no  one  piwi-ntcd  me— aiul  tt>  perceive  how  they  had 
been  transfigured  by  sacrilegious  Hawkins,  whoever  he  was.  He 
had  had  the  impertinence  to  allow  that  fat  cook  to  sleep  in  my 
Chemistry  Room;  so  I  judged  from  its  regrettable  slovenliness 
and  a  consciousness  that  the  window  had  not  been  opened,  and 
perhaps  from  a  bonnet  on  the  bed  with  imperial  purple  ribbons. 
He  had  covered  the  walls  with  luxuriant  papers  whose  price  I  felt 
certain  had  been  nicely  apportioned  to  the  prospective  occupants 
of  the  rooms  they  covered,  that  cook's  being  a  triumph  of  cheap- 
ness. His  ideas  of  furniture  were  beneath  contempt,  and  he  had 
put  all  the  beds  and  wardrobes  in  the  wrong  places.  Still.  I  am 
not  sure  I  did  not  feel  grateful  to  him  for  the  way  he  had  ar- 
ranged, or  deranged,  the  room  my  mother  died  in.  Any  similarity 
would  have  seemed  an  intentional  disregard  of  the  feelings  of 
survivors.  I  only  got  a  very  hurried  peep  into  my  father's  old 
library,  as  Cooky  urged  despatch.  "  Suppose  the  family  comes 
home,''  said  he,  '*  how  shall  we  explain  ourselves — looking  into  the 
rooms? "  I  saw  that  any  excursion  outside  the  immediate  province 
of  casual  fire-extinguishers  would  seem  unwarrantable,  and  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  street,  unnoticed  further  of  any  inmate 
except  Mr.  Freeman,  of  whom  we  presently  became  aware,  close 
behind  us,  touching  his  hat.  "  Ast  your  pardon.  Master  Eustace." 
said  he,  "  for  follerin'  of  you,  but  the  opportunity  seemed  'andy 
to  mention  about  them  boxes." 

"Which  boxes?" 

"  Well — them  you  see.  They  don't  consaru  me,  and  in  course 
I've  work  enough  to  do  minding  my  own  business,  as  you  might 
say.  But  it  don't  cost  nothin'  to  mention  a  box  or  two,  or  maybe 
three,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

My  subconscious  certainty  about  that  box  began  to  waver. 
'•  Why — you  don't  mean  to  say  that's  the  same  box?"  said  I. 

"  The  very  self-same  identical  Lord-love-you-as-ever-you-was- 
born  box,  Master  Eustace!  Never  been  moved  out  of  that  very 
hattick  where  it  stood  all  your  pa's  time,  and  who  so  well  as  me 
knows  it,  having  unpacked  it  with  these  two  'ands?"  He  spread 
them  but  in  testimony.  "  And  what  is  more  nailed  it  to  again,  all 
but  a  pie-god  and  some  skeweriosities  in  the  knife-line.  Only  you 
was  too  young,  Master  Eustace,  for  to  notice  particulars." 

"  No  I  wasn't.  At  least,  I  was  rather  a  kid  the  first  time. 
How  comes  the  box  to  be  there  now?  Anything  else  in  it?  Any- 
thing of  value?" 

"  Not  that  I  could  speak  to.  Unless  it's  a  Horrory.  But  I 
made  bold  to  mention  it,  seein'  I  owe  my  present  foot'old  in  the 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  331 

'otise  to  the  Master's  recommendation,  and  the  goods  is  more  like 
than  not  to  get  theirselves  lost  sight-  of." 

"  But  bow  did  they  come  there  ?  I  mean  how  comes  it  they 
are  there  still?  I  thought  they  had  gone  to  my  granny's  ages 
ago." 

u  So  anybody  would !  But  they  ain't,  nor  yet  they  won't,  onless 
sent  for.  You  may  put  your  money  on  that.  Now,  like  I  under- 
stand it,  it  went  this  way.  After  the  family  left,  this  new  lot 
come  in,  'Awkins  by  name,  and  says,  they  says,  'What's  all  these 
here  boxes,'  they  says.  And  some  on  'em  up  and  says,  '  'Tis  the 
last  peoples  not  took  'em  away,'  they  says.  Then  Governor 
'Awkins,  he  says,  '  Hind  you  give  me  a  nudge,  my  dear,'  he  says, 
'  about  these  here  boxes,  next  time  I'm  commoonicating  with  the 
late  owner,'  be  says, '  and  111  let  him  know  to  send  for  'em.  'Cos  / 
ain't  a-going  to  pay  no  carriage  on  'em,'  be  says,  '  for  one ! '  It 
was  Huntidy  Jane  told  me  that,  our  'ousemaid  at  the  time,  three 
lots  afore  this  one.  And  she  let  on  the  boxes  was  there  still  six 
weeks  after,  and  she  mentioned  'em  to  the  missus.  And  the  missus 
she  says : — *  Dear  me,  how  very  neglectful !  But  they  can  wait  a 
few  days  longer,  now  it's  been  so  long! '  And  then  they  got  stood 
over,  and  got  stood  over,  till  they  just  stood  theirselves  over  and 
no  questions  asked.  And  there  they  are.  Only  no  'arm  in  men- 
tionin'  of  'em,  that  I  see."  As  I  detected  in  Mr.  Freeman's  manner 
a  combative  tone  of  resentment,  quite  unprovoked,  I  hastened  to 
assure  him  that  his  own  conduct  had  been  faultless  throughout,  in 
a  position  requiring  a  rare  combination  of  intrepidity  and  reserve. 
He  seemed  partly  satisfied ;  but  not  wholly,  to  judge  by  the  manner 
in  which  he  said  there  was  a  many  would  'ave  'eld  their 
tongues. 

As  Cooky  had  spent  the  previous  evening  at  The  Retreat,  he 
did  not  return  there  with  me  after  this  expedition.  But  I  narrated 
the  whole  of  it  to  my  family,  and  was  congratulated  on  the  singu- 
lar chance  which  had  given  me  such  a  much  completer  entry  into 
our  old  house  than  I  had  any  right  to  expect.  My  sister  Roberta 
and  her  husband  were  paying  us  one  of  their  rare  visits  that  eve- 
ning— its  object  was  that  they  should  become  better  acquainted 
with  their  future  brother-in-law,  Ellen's  parson — and  my  narra- 
tive gave  rise  to  passages  of  arms  between  her  and  her  step- 
mother, which  I  think  might  have  been  avoided  had  Roberta  shown 
a  more  conciliatory  disposition  towards  Jemima,  who,  after  all. 
had  been  the  great  friend  of  her  early  youth,  and  with  whom 
she  had  no  quarrel  except  her  marriage  with  my  father,  which  had, 
so  far,  only  conduced  to  his  comfort  and  happiness. 


332  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  told  my  story  at  dinner,  and  no  doubt  was  thrown  on  its 
veracity  except  by  Roberta,  who  received  it  coldly,  and  went  the 
length  of  saying  across  the  table  to  her  husband: — "  I  suppose  you 
know  that  you  mustn't  believe  above  half  of  this  boy's  romances? " 
He  laughed  uneasily,  as  one  between  two  fires,  but  I  think  got 
away  cleverly,  saying : — "  What — not  exactly  Gospel — eh  ?  "  This 
made  Ellen  uncomfortable,  and  I  feel  sure  she  trod  on  the  Rev. 
Irena?us'  toe  about  it,  spoiling  a  look  of  humorous  condonation  of 
lax  speech,  which  he  would  otherwise  have  got  through  safely. 
Gracey  took  my  part  at  once,  saying: — "Nonsense!  Why  not  the 
kitchen  chimney  on  fire?  And  of  course  they  went  in,  to  help." 
My  father  deprecated  a  too  close  examination  of  the  story,  not 
to  hamper  the  narrator. 

Smoking-time  in  my  father's  library  that  evening  only  remains 
in  my  memory  in  connection  with  his  benevolent  desire  to  estab- 
lish peaceful  relations  between  his  actual  and  potential  sons-in- 
law.  The  attempt  proved  fruitless;  indeed  the  conditions  were 
impossible.  If  they  could  have  quarrelled  and  fought,  Anderson  and 
Irenwus  would  have  done  much  better.  But  what  between  the 
club  manners  of  the  former  and  the  Christian  meekness  of  the 
latter,  it  was  a  hard  task  to  discover  a  modus  vivendi,  and  my 
father  gave  it  up,  and  fell  back  on  topics  of  the  day.  There  was 
always  the  Indian  Mutiny.  But  there  was  nothing  to  prolong  the 
symposium  beyond  the  duration  of  one  pipe  for  my  father  and  a 
small  cigar  for  my  brother-in-law.  And  a  condition  that  made 
both  of  them  anxious  to  shorten  it  was  the  way  in  which  con- 
versation in  the  drawing-room  made  itself  felt,  causing  my  father 
to  say  to  me,  aside: — "  I  hope  they  haven't  come  to  loggerheads 
again." 

They  had,  and  the  fact  was  painfully  clear  to  us  males  when 
we  entered  the  room.  What  had  been  the  controversy  became  a 
sudden  constrained  stillness,  and  Roberta,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
made  matters  worse  by  saying  to  Europe  generally: — "  Perhaps  we 
had  better  talk  of  something  else."  But  for  this,  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  sustain  a  colourable  pretext  of  faith  in  milk 
and  honey  and  olive  branches.  As  it  was,  I  was  not  surprised  that, 
when  my  father,  having  put  some  sotto  voce  question  to  my  step- 
mother, pressed  for  a  reply  to  it  in  spite  of  her,  "  I'll  tell  you 
presently,"  they  should  carry  on  aside  a  conversation  of  which 
her  share  evidently  was  a  version  of  the  loggerhead  we  had  inter- 
rupted. On  her  part  it  was  tearful  and  tremulous;  on  his,  pacifi- 
catory at  first;  then  impressed,  with  a  background  of  resolution 
taking  form.  Nor  was  I  surprised  that  Ellen  should  insulate  her 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  333 

parson  to  give  him  her  version,  and  instruct  him — I  suppose — 
in  the  attitude  he  should  assume.  But  I  was  when  Gracey  evaded 
answer  to  an  inquiry  from  me  as  to  what  "the  row"  was,  by 
saying : — "  No,  Jackey  dear,  I  shan't  talk  about  it.  At  least — 
wait! " 

I  overheard  Roberta  say  to  her  husband,  "  It's  very  easy  to  talk, 

but  if  you  knew  what  I  know "  followed  by  something  I  could 

not  catch,  and  some  under-talk  between  them.  She  was  quite 
white  with  anger,  or  emotion  of  some  sort,  and  her  words  shook 
on  her  lips.  He  raised  his  voice  a  little  over  hers,  so  I  heard  his 
words: — "Of  course  you  can't  say  that  to  your  father.  I  quite 
see  that.  But  the  whole  thing  is  nonsense — sheer  nonsense!  "  To 
which  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  savage  suppression : — "  We  shall 
see!" 

The  recollection  remains  with  me  as  a  light  on  the  character 
of  Roberta,  its  unruly  violence  and  utter  want  of  forgiveness. 
For  what  had  her  old  friend  done  to  be  the  object  of  such  pro- 
longed resentment?  She  had  married  a  widower — certainly  not 
against  his  will — and  possibly  for  the  sake  of  his  daughters,  who 
were  just  at  the  time  of  life  when  the  need  for  a  mother  is  most 
felt.  The  same  thing  very  commonly  happens,  under  the  same 
circumstances.  The  big  parson  who  comes  here  to  take  the  duties 
occasionally — with  whom  I  often  get  a  more  intimate  talk  than  I 
have  had  with  any  man  for  years — has  told  me  how  he  just 
escaped  having  to  marry  his  sister-in-law  because  his  suffragan 
would  not  allow  her  to  live  in  the  same  house  to  mother  over  his 
daughters,  as  she  had  done  since  his  first  wife  died  in  their  baby- 
hood. My  father's  marriage  with  Jemima  has  seemed  to  me  at 
times  almost  as  natural  as  though  she  had  had  a  blood-kinship 
with  us  children.  I  am,  of  course,  speaking  of  times  when  my 
insight  into  her  character  still  remained  practically  what  it  was 
at  the  date  of  what  I  am  narrating.  Roberta  no  doubt  knew  her 
better  than  I  did,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  she  did  know  anything 
to  warrant  the  revengeful  spirit  which  she  certainly  showed. 

As  Gracey  had  stood  over  comparison  of  notes  on  the  subject, 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  remain  an  outsider.  I  was  very  little  the 
wiser  as  to  what  the  breeze  had  been  about  in  our  absence  when, 
after  the  departure  of  the  guests,  I  went  with  my  father  into 
the  library,  to  sanction  with  my  presence  his  deferred  second  pipe, 
which  he  had  sacrificed  in  order  to  appear  as  peacemaker  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  got  no  enlightenment  from  him,  for  he  only 
said,  in  reply  to  cautious  inquiry: — Bert  and  your  stepmamma 
misunderstood  one  another.  They  always  do.''  Then  he  brushed 


334  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

the  subject  aside.  "  Now  tell  me  some  more  about  the  Square. 
Just  fancy  those  boxes  being  there  still!  Are  you  sure  they  were 
the  same  ? " 

"  Freeman  is,"  said  I.  "  But  then  of  course  he  drinks.  I  was 
only  a  kid." 

"  But  you  thought  you  did  recollect  the  box." 

"  Oh  yes — I  thought  so  fast  enough." 

"  Well — it's  very  funny.  That's  all  I  can  say."  He  paused 
a  few  seconds,  recollecting  "  I  wrote  to  your  worthy  Uncle  Fran- 
cis about  them,  enclosing  the  value  of  the  ornaments  I  had 
taken  from  the — double  the  value,  Stowe  said — and  your  uncle 
sent  me  a  formal  receipt  and  said  he  noted  the  contents  of  my 
letter.  Nothing  further  transpired." 

I  referred  to  Mr.  Freeman's  report  of  Untidy  Jane's  obser- 
vations of  the  attitude  of  the  Hawkins  family  towards  these 
boxes. 

"  I  think  I  see  how  the  thing  may  have  happened,"  said  my 
father.  "  Probably  when  your  uncle  took  possession  of  the  house, 
to  hand  it  over  to  Hawkins,  who  has  bought  the  lease,  he  took 
good  care  to  ascertain  that  nothing  of  value  was  left  in  these 
celebrated  boxes,  and  put  the  lids  on  and  left  them,  promising 
to  send  for  them,  and  forgot  all  about  them.  Purposely,  I  mean ! 
The  devolution  of  absolutely  valueless  lumber  to  others  is  a  lead- 
ing instinct  of  laziness." 

I  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  than : — "  I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  write  and  say  we  saw  them? "  I  wanted  him  to  talk  about 
the  emeute  in  the  drawing-room. 

But  his  mind  was  on  those  boxes.  "  Hardly  necessary !  "  said 
he.  "  I  wrote  about  them,  and  he  noted  the  contents  of  my  let- 
ter. That  seems  to  me  to  exhaust  the  subject.  Besides,  it's  so 
long  ago."  He  cogitated  a  little,  smoking;  then  said: — "Can't 
help  thinking  your  venerable  granny  had  a  finger  in  that  pie. 
Don't  I  recollect  something  .  .  .  something  .  .  .  ?  Oh  yes,  I  re- 
member! It  was  Anne  Tucker  who  had  something,  I  forget  what, 
to  do  with  the  former  opening  of  one  of  those  boxes,  and  your 
grandmamma  objected  to  their  being  opened  again  in  her  house 
because  she  conceived  that  they  had  been  somehow  contaminated 
by  Anne  Tucker's  moral  character.  .  .  .  Or  wasn't  it  something 
about  an  insect?  I  forget!  Anyhow,  the  old  lady  stood  at  bay 
when  the  proposal  was  made  to  bring  the  filthy  things  to  her 
house.  Consequently  they  were  taken  to  the  Square,  and  there 
it  seems  they  are  still."  He  tapped  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  keep- 
ing his  eyes  on  them  as  though  their  past  were  something  like 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  335 

his  own — so  I  fancy  now;  I  saw  nothing  then — and  said  with  a 
sigh : — Oh  dear,  twenty-five  years  ago  now — very  nearly !  " 

I  recall  all  I  can  recollect  of  incident  connected  with  those 
boxes,  as  they  played  so  large  a  part  in  my  life  till  they  and 
I  wound  up  our  connection  with  one  another,  rather  abruptly. 

Gracey  told  me  something  next  day  of  the  battle  royal  which 
we  had  interrupted  that  evening.  Whether  she  told  me  everything 
I  cannot  say.  I  had  at  the  time  the  impression  that  she  kept 
something  back. 

Jemima — we  usually  called  her  so  when  alone — had  said,  speak- 
ing of  me  and  Cooky: — "Fancy  those  two  boys  getting  such  a 
look  over  the  dear  old  house!"  On  which  Roberta  had  said,  dis- 
agreeably:— "Are  you  so  jealous  of  them,  Helen?  Are  you  so 
anxious  to  see  the  inside  of  the  '  dear  old  house '  ?  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  be  glad  to  forget  all  about  it." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Gracey,  "  that  Jemima  kept  her  temper  very 
well.  I  mean  '  kept  her  temper '  because  of  the  way  Bert  repeated 
her  words  '  the  dear  old  house.'  You  know  how  nasty  Bert  can  be, 
when  she  likes." 

"Rather!" 

"  Well,  she  liked.  I'm  sure  Jemima  wanted  to  be  conciliatory. 
Only  she  did  look  very  much  shocked.  I  lost  my  temper  with 
Bert." 

"  She's  a  beast.  .  .  .  Well,  she's  aggravating !  What  did  you 
say?" 

"  I  flared  up.  I  said  { Why  is  Aunt  Helen  to  be  gladder  to 
forget  all  about  it  than  you  or — or  us  ? '  I  think  I  heard  Bert 
say  to  Anderson : — '  She's  only  a  child ! '  Meaning  I  wasn't  worth 
an  answer.  Why  am  I  to  be  only  a  child?  Because  she's  mar- 
ried, I  suppose." 

"  You're  only  two  years  younger  than  she  is,"  said  I.  I  was 
trying  to  get  outside  family  tradition,  and  see  it  as  others  saw 
it.  Gracey  seemed  to  me  disproportionately  more  my  age  than 
Bert,  who  had  enrolled  herself  among  seniors,  by  marrying.  But 
if  she  was  a  child  I  was  two  years  more  so,  and  resented  the  in- 
sult. "  Didn't  her  Anderson  husband  tell  her  she  was  a 
fool?" 

"  N — no !  But  I  think  he  said  I  was  going  on  for  twenty.  So  I 
am,  you  know.  It's  no  use  shutting  one's  eyes." 

u  I  suppose  it  isn't.  But  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with 
the  matter.  What  did  Jemima  say?" 

"  Poor  Aunt  Helen !  She  really  looked  very  much  upset,  and  I 
don't  wonder.  Because  I  do  really  think,  Jackey  ....  Oh  no — 


336  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  daresay  you  don't!  .  .  .  that  when  she  married  Papa,  she 
was  thinking  a  great  deal  about  us  girls.  I  really  do.  And  when 
Bert  turned  upon  her  in  this  way  it  was  a  great  shock.  It  would 
have  been,  to  anybody.  Why,  Bert  and  she  were  always  .  .  .  were 
always " 

"  In  each  other's  pockets  ? " 

"I  was  going  to  say  'like  sisters'.     Only " 

"  Only  Jemima's  old  enough  to  be  Bert's  mother !  Well — she 
is!  She's  twenty  years  older.  Twenty  does."  This  rather  ob- 
scure saying  meant  that  mothers  of  twenty  were  no  rarity.  "  But 
what  did  Jemima  say?M 

"  She  said  '  Yes — dear  Gracey  is  quite  right.  Why  should  I 
wish  to  forget  Mecklenburg  Square — any  more  than  you  do — any 
more  than  those  boys?'  Then  Bert  said  with  a  snap: — 'You 
know  best,'  and  stood  looking  savage  at  her.  Aunt  Helen  said — 
keeping  her  temper  wonderfully,  I  must  say;  I  know  I  should 
have  lost  mine — '  I  can't  understand  what  you  mean,  Roberta. 
What  on  earth  is  it  that  makes  you  so  furious  with  me  always  ? ' 
And  then  she  thought  a  little  and  said: — 'Don't  you  think  it 
would  really  be  better,  my  dear,  if  you  were  to  speak  out  plainly 
and  say  what  it's  all  about,  instead  of  making  mysteries  ? '  But 
Bert  wouldn't  answer,  and  made  believe  to  read  Tennyson,  and 
I  thought  we  might  talk  of  something  else.  She  hadn't  done, 
though,  for  she  looked  up  in  a  minute  and  said : — '  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  I  can't.'  And  when  Aunt  Helen  said: — 
'Can't  what?' — and  no  wonder,  for  really  it  was  so  long  before! 
— she  said :  '  Can't  speak  out  plainly.  There !  I  won't  talk  any 
more  about  it,'  and  pretended  to  read." 

"  I  say — what  did  she  mean  ?  "  For  I  could  not  understand  all 
this  scrupulousness  on  Bert's  part.  Had  she  not  denounced  Je- 
mima before  this  in  good,  round  terms  for  presuming  to  marry 
my  father.  For  that  was  the  head  and  front  of  her  offend- 
ing. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  she  meant,"  said  Gracey,  slowly.  Then 
to  Varnish,  who  was  there,  she  said  quickly : — u  Don't  you,  Var- 
nish ?" 

"  I  couldn't  speak  to  her,  knowing  what  she  meant,  Miss  Gracey. 
But  if  she'd  spoke  it  out,  I  lay  I  should  have  agreed  with  Miss 
Roberta."  I  understood  this  to  mean  that  any  censure  of  my  step- 
mother would  probably  have  been  endorsed  by  her.  For  Varnish 
had  never  forgiven  the  Cat,  though  she  had  for  a  long  time 
given  up  applying  that  epithet  to  her. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN         337 

"  But  I  think  I  do  know,"  said  Gracey.  "  Only  one  doesn't 
like  the  sound  of  it  in  words.  She  meant  that  Jemima  had  thought 
over  it  all  before  we  lost  Mamma." 

"  Why,  in  course  she  had !  "  said  Varnish,  uncompromisingly. 
"  Who  was  to  stop  her  ? "  And  then  she  did  make  use  of  that 
epithet.  "A  sly  Cat,  I  say!" 

"Oh,  Varnish,"  said  Gracey.     "How  hard  you  are!" 

"  I  says  what  I  think,  Miss  Gracey." 

"  Perhaps  she  never  thought  over  it  aloud  ? "  I  took  this  as 
a  discrimination  between  the  attitude  of  mind  which  hatches  a 
plot  frankly,  and  that  which  shrinks  from  the  terms  of  its  con- 
ception. 

" '  P'raps '  never  got  upstairs,  as  the  sayin'  is,"  said  Varnish. 
I  do  not,  however,  believe  that  Varnish  had  ever  heard  this  say- 
ing, or  that  such  a  one  exists.  She  seemed  to  wish  to  go  out 
of  the  conversation,  I  thought,  but  not  before  she  had  given 
a  colour  to  it.  "  I  shan't  say  another  word,"  said  she.  "  Only 
just  you  make  this  young  Squire  tell  you  all  through  what  the 
doctor  gentleman  said,  outside  of  Dr.  Hammond's  in  Bernard 
Street.  All  through!"  And  Varnish  gave  her  whole  soul  to 
darning. 

I  did  as  she  wished,  repeating  every  word  that  Mr.  Parminter 
Harris  used,  but  I  confess  with  some  stuttering  over  his  stupid 
use  of  the  phrase  "  poisoning  case  ".  I  had  already  told  this  to 
Varnish,  in  the  morning;  and  though  she  did  not  comment,  she 
checked  off  each  item  of  my  narrative  as  it  came,  with  a  nod, 
as  in  harmony  with  the  version  already  given.  Neither  of  them 
seemed  so  much  offended  as  I  had  been  at  the  way  Mr.  Harris 
had  spoken.  Dr.  Scammony  would  correct  that  misapprehension. 
The  portion  of  Mr.  Harris's  observation  that  seemed  to  interest 
them  was  his  curiosity  about  my  father's  second  marriage,  and 
his  rather  impertinent  way  of  saying  he  thought  it  was  the 
governess. 

"I  recollect  thinking  him  a  cheeky  man."  said  Gracey.  How- 
ever, we  dismissed  him  as  Cooky  and  I  had  done,  and  I  asked 
Gracey  whether  there  was  any  more  row  after  that,  and  she  said 
heaps.  In  the  course  of  which  it  appeared  that  Jemima  had  lost 
her  temper,  and  cried  and  got  u  rather  wild."  at  which  Gracey 
didn't  wonder.  And  then  we  had  come  in.  and  that  stopped  it. 
"  But  I  really  shouldn't  be  much  surprised."  said  she,  "  if  Bert 
and  Anderson  never  come  here  again.  I  really  shouldn't."  To 
which  Varnish  replied : — "  Lard  sakes,  Miss  Gracey,  it's  never  as 


338  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

bad  as  all  that."  Then  Gracey  said : — "  I  don't  think  it  matters, 
you  know.  I  don't  think  anything  matters.  It  seems  as  if  the 
old  time  was  all  going  away,  and  we  could  keep  none  of  it." 

I  recollect  a  kind  of  surprise  at  Varnish  saying : — "  Now  you're 
not  to  fret,  Miss  Gracey.  He'll  come  back  a  General,  Master 
Monty  will,  and  he's  not  the  sort  that  forgets  old  friends."  It 
seemed  such  a  sudden  jump  from  the  sins  of  Jemima  and  the 
unforgiveness  of  Bert.  But  I  understand  it  all  now. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

THE  Retreat  was  sadder  than  it  was  ready  to  admit  when  the 
day  came  for  Ensign  Moss's  last  farewell  to  it.  But  it  was  pleased 
to  make  believe  that  nothing  particular  was  going  to  happen. 

The  only  person  who  referred  to  it  was  Thomas  the  coachman — 
he  occurs,  I  know,  some  distance  back  in  this  narrative — who 
addressed  me  from  his  box  as  I  waited  at  the  gate  for  my  father 
in  the  morning.  I  used  to  get  the  advantage  of  a  lift  to  town 
in  the  brougham  occasionally,  when  times  and  seasons  suited.  I 
need  not  say  that  Thomas  touched  his  hat  before  adventuring  into 
the  wilds  of  human  speech. 

"  Miss  Raynes  in  the  kitchen  was  makin'  mention,  last  evening, 
that  Mr.  Montague  was  sailing  by  the  boat,  to-morrow  morning,  for 
India." 

"  She's  about  right.  He's  gone  into  the  Army,  you  see !  "  I 
was  rather  proud  of  having  a  friend  who  had  gone  into  the  Army. 

"  I  always  did  think  Mr.  Montague  had  the  look.  There's  a 
many  you  can  tell  off-hand  wouldn't  make  a  soldier.  There's  the 
reverend  gentleman,  Miss  Raynes  was  a-saying,  he's  a  lot  best  out 
of  the  Army." 

"Him!  He's  only  a  parson."  I  think  now  that  perfect  justice 
might  have  admitted  that  my  clerical  brother-in-law-elect  had 
never  aspired  to  knighthood  or  soldiership.  He  was  a  person 
of  staggering  meekness,  with  a  slight  stoop,  and  delicate  white 
hands. 

Thomas  assented,  mesmerizing  his  horse  thoughtfully  with  his 
whip  lash,  and  keeping  his  eyes  on  its  ears.  "  Only  I  should  not 
have  said  India  was  a  good  climate.  Parties  I've  heard  tell  of 
have  died  of  it.  And  they're  having  a  bad  time  out  there  now, 
so  they  say.  Howsomever,  we  may  count  on  that  job  being  done 
by  the  time  Mr.  Montague  gets  out."  He  discoursed  on  affairs 
military,  taking  a  view  like  that  of  the  father  in  Jabberwocky, 
that  the  avoidance  of  danger  was  a  soldier's  first  object  to  con- 
sider. He  was  to  heed  well  jubjub  birds,  and  shun  frumious 
bandersnatches. 

I  expressed  my  conviction  that  Cooky  would  exercise  every  dis- 

339 


340  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

cretion,   but  would   somehow   distinguish   himself;    and,   meeting 
with  rapid  promotion,  would  shortly  become  a  General  of  Division. 

Just  then  my  father  came  out,  looking  at  his  watch,  and  we 
had  to  hurry  away.  "  Who's  going  to  be  a  General?"  said  he, 
having  caught  the  last  words  of  our  conversation.  "  Oh,  ah — 
Nebuchadnezzar,  I  suppose!  By  the  by,  isn't  he  coming  tonight 
to  give  us  his  blessing?"  I  said  that  by  the  by  he  was  affecting 
a  manly  superiority  to  human  emotion.  We  conversed  about  his 
departure  on.  the  same  lines,  and  the  only  concession  we  made 
to  the  seriousness  of  the  position  was  that  we  so  very  much  over- 
did our  certainty  that  this  row  in  India  would  all  be  over  before 
he  got  there.  I  even  made  use  of  the  expression  that  he  would 
be  too  late  for  any  of  the  fun.  My  father's  only  censure  of  this 
rather  boyish  speech  was  to  say  drily : — "  Queer  fun,  some  of  it !  " 
We  were  really  making  believe.  I  have  detected  the  same  attitude 
of  mind  since  then,  in  much  civilian  conversation  about  mili- 
tary operations.  I  believe  it  expresses  somehow  the  readiness  of 
manhood  to  serve  in  the  army  if  called  upon ;  an  inherent  fitness 
for  so  doing  being  common  to  all  Englishmen.  This  tone  can  be 
indulged  in  with  perfect  security  in  a  country  where  military 
service  is  not  compulsory. 

Our  demeanour  that  evening,  when  we  were  waiting  to  hear 
our  guest's  knock,  would  have  done  credit  to  Sparta.  An  atmos- 
phere of  agreement  that  no  one  was  on  any  account  to  commis- 
erate anybody  enveloped  us.  Why  father,  I  think,  just  overdid  the 
necessary  amount  of  cheerfulness,  being  a  poor  actor.  Jemima 
maintained  an  absolute  equilibrium.  But  it  may  have  included  a 
pretence  that  she  was  not  relieved. 

Gracey  was  silent  and  white.  As  is  not  unusual  with  me,  what- 
ever Ellen  was,  I  cannot  recollect  it.  There  are,  however,  so  many 
things  about  that  evening  I  cannot  bring  back.  I  cannot  for  in- 
stance remember  how  or  when  Cooky  arrived,  only  that  we  waited 
for  him.  And  what  followed  is  a  blank,  until,  as  the  female  por- 
tion of  the  party  at  dinner  abdicates,  Gracey  says  to  Cooky: — 
"  Don't  be  longer  than  yon  need,  you  know ! "  and  then  that  my 
mind  receives  the  idea  that  it  is  a  pity  that  my  friend  and  my 
sister  may  not  possess  this  hour  to  themselves — this  hour  that 
may  be  their  last!  For,  suppose  a  stray  Sepoy  bullet  finds  its 
way  to  the  heart  of  the  man,  will  it  not  find  the  girl's  heart,  too? 

But  we  have  to  do  justice  to  a  pretence,  or — should  I  say? — 
to  two  pretences;  one,  that  he  is  sure  to  come  back  alive  in  due 
course;  another,  that  the  interest  of  each  one  of  us  in  his  return 
only  differs  by  more  and  less;  that  of  the  two  most  affected,  Gracey 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  341 

and  myself,  being  precisely  the  same  in  every  particular.  On  no 
account  is  concession  to  be  made  to  the  girlhood  of  Gracey  and 
the  manhood  of  the  young  soldier.  That  would  never  do;  it 
would  be  allowing  the  marriage  loom  to  weave  its  golden  thread 
into  the  correct  long-cloth  of  friendship.  Quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, in  this  case! 

Ideas  that  last  a  lifetime  sometimes  date  from  a  particular 
moment.  I  think  it  was  just  when  Gracey  said: — "Don't  be 
longer  than  you  need,  you  know !  "  and  I  saw  hex  face,  that  the 
idea  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  when  the  human  race  allows  its 
dark  and  foolish  faddles  about  the  Unknown,  which  I  can  see  no 
reason  to  suppose  is  not  the  Unknowable,  to  sway  the  ordering 
of  its  lives,  it  is  only  surrendering  without  a  protest  to  its  col- 
lective egotisms,  and  cowering  at  the  feet  of  an  insensate  graven 
image — a  nightmare  indigestion  of  the  sleep  of  Ignorance.  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  held  since  then  a  sincere  conviction  of  the  wick- 
edness of  intruding  on  the  lives  of  others  our  guidance — or  coer- 
cion masquerading  as  guidance — based  on  thoughts  beyond  the 
reaches  of  our  souls.  I  have  never  found  that  this  conviction 
has  quarrelled  with  another  equally  strong,  that  there  is  no  more 
creditable  motive  for  personal  conduct  than  the  one  which  impels 
us  to  fall  in  with  the  general  scheme  of  Creation.  Those  who 
choose  to  phrase  this  as  obedience  to  the  Will  of  God  may  do  so, 
for  anything  I  care.  Provided  always  that  they  do  not  forthwith 
proceed  to  interpret  the  Will  of  God,  and  impose  their  interpre- 
tation on  slaves  they  own,  or  dupes  they  make. 

I  suppose  the  world  never  to  have  been  more  savagely  scourged 
than  by  the  religious  conviction  of  kindled  egotism  that  its  sin- 
cerity confers  the  right  of  dictating  the  lives  of  others.  I  remem- 
ber now  that  Cooky  once  expressed  admiration  for  Torquemada, 
for  his  obvious  honesty  and  his  deep  sense  of  duty.  Was  not  his 
logic  inexorable?  Here  were  Jews  galore,  all  damned,  axioinati- 
cally.  If  roasted  now,  the  undamned  inheritance  would  be  at  its 
minimum;  there  would,  in  fact,  be  one  damned  soul  in  Hell,  in 
place  of  the  prospect  of  an  indefinite  number.  And  was  not  the 
worthy  Cardinal  just  as  convinced  of  hellfire  for  Jews  as  the  earth- 
measurer  of  old  was  that  two  straight  fences  would  not  enclose  a 
field?  And  Euclid  is  true,  anyhow!  Come  now!  Therefore,  said 
Cooky,  this  conscientious  Inquisitor  was  only  striving  to  correct 
an  oversight  of  Omniscience,  and  to  limit  its  consequences  as 
much  as  possible. 

I  was  quite  ready  with  a  tribute  to  the  single-mindedness  of 
the  Holy  Office,  and  of  deep  religious  conviction  generally.  But 


342  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  looked  at  the  matter  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  personal 
inconvenience  it  occasions  its  victims.  Why  torture  Jews  and 
Heretics  to  death,  for  anything  short  of  a  certainty?  Even  Euclid, 
strong  as  his  conviction  must  have  been  that  two  straight  lines 
cannot  enclose  a  space,  try  how  they  may,  never  would  have  given 
way  to  the  temptation  to  burn  a  fellow-creature  who  denied  that 
the  squares  on  the  sides  of  a  right-angled  triangle  are  together 
equal  to  the  square  on  its  base.  Then,  to  be  sure,  Euclid  never 
had  a  Divine  Revelation  of  the  truth  of  Axiom  10.  He  may  even 
have  had  misgivings  about  the  flatness  of  the  ear.  No  doubt, 
however,  an  equivalent  existed  in  Greek  for  the  useful  adverb 
practically.  He  would  have  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  this  planet  is  "  practically  "  flat.  How  the  two  straight  lines 
would  have  crowed,  if  each  could  have  produced  itself  all  round 
the  world,  with  a  double  intersection,  to  be  able  to  "  point  out," 
to  Euclid,  that  they  had  actually  gone  one  better  than  his  challenge, 
and  enclosed  him  two  whole  spaces  instead  of  one,  as  stipulated! 

Would  Euclid  have  sanctioned  a  marriage  of  his  son  into  a 
family  that  affirmed  the  rotundity  of  the  earth?  Probably,  be- 
cause it  wouldn't  have  been  Religion.  Cooky's  old  mother,  whose 
heart  he  shrank  from  breaking  by  asking  her  to  accept  a  Gentile 
daughter-in-law,  was  more  certain  that  her  people  were  the  Chosen 
of  the  Lord  than  Euclid  was  about  those  two  straight  lines — far 
more  certain,  because  it  was  Revelation.  So  overwhelming  is  the 
force  of  tradition,  so  unassailable  are  instructions  delivered  per- 
sonally by  the  Creator  of  the  Universe — the  longer  ago  the  better — 
that  both  retained  their  influence  over  a  mind  that  rejected  them 
on  their  merits — my  friend's  mind.  It  had  done  this,  I  am  con- 
vinced; but  the  dark  cloud  of  an  ancestral  belief,  combined  with 
affection  for  his  mother  to  warp  his  natural  instincts,  and  drive 
him  to  a  desperate  expedient  to  escape  from  a  position  whose  em- 
barrassments must  needs  grow  worse  as  time  went  on.  That  way 
madness  lay. 

This  is  all  retrospect,  it  shows  the  position  as  I  see  it  now.  In 
what  I  have  written  hitherto  I  have  tried  to  recall  only  what 
seemed  real  to  me  then.  Probably  any  one  reading  it — only  no 
such  perusal  will  ever  take  place — would  receive  the  impressions 
I  had  myself,  which  indeed  had  a  most  unsubstantial  character 
up  to  the  very  moment  of  Cooky's  farewell.  Let  me  get  back  of 
it,  and  recall  all  I  can.  It  may  shake  my  faith  in  my  own  later 
inferences,  but  I  doubt  it. 

I  do  remember,  as  I  have  said,  that  a  nascent  indignation  against 
the  obsession  of  Life  by  Creed  stirred  in  my  mind  when  Gracey 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  343 

hinted  that,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  Cooky  and  I  might  trans- 
pire in  the  drawing-room  at  the  earliest  moment  usage  would 
warrant.  It  was  something  in  Gracey's  look  that  started  it,  and 
it  had  come  to  stay;  but  with  very  little  luggage,  so  far. 

"  Don't  consider  yourselves  bound  to  stop  here,  you  two  boys !  " 
said  my  father,  who  was  probably  alive  to  what  was  going  on.  I 
looked  at  Cooky,  and  he  at  me ;  and  each  look  said  to  the  other : — 
"  Suppose  we  make  it  five  minutes !  "  It  would  have  been  too 
brutal  to  take  immediate  advantage  of  my  father's  suggestion. 
We  disclaimed  hurry,  verbally,  and  made  some  parade  of  the  un- 
usually normal  character  of  the  occasion.  My  father  persisted  in 
recognizing  its  exceptional  feature,  recurring  to  it  candidly.  "  And 
if  the  regiment  remains  in  India,  how  long  will  it  be  before  we 
can  come  back  on  leave?"  said  he,  meaning  by  "we,"  of  course, 
Cooky.  Who  replied,  I  think,  three  years.  "  Very  well  then, 
Nebuchadnezzar,  we  shall  be  on  the  lookout  for  you  in  three  years' 
time."  We  might  have  believed  the  Ninth  Lancers  invulnerable 
to  powder  and  shot,  for  any  hint  that  was  given  of  his  never 
coming  back  at  all. 

We  made  it  five  minutes,  filled  out  with  talk  of  this  kind.  I 
suppose  we  were  all  aware  how  hollow  the  conversation  was,  and 
that  it  was  only  maintained — like  so  much  conversation — to  keep 
in  abeyance  the  gist  of  what  it  professed  to  deal  with.  I  doubt 
if  it  had  reached  the  end  of  the  short  existence  we  had  allotted 
to  it,  when  my  father  cut  it  shorter  still,  saying,  "  Now,  sup- 
pose you  go ! "  and  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  got  up  uneasily. 
He  softened  our  departure  by  adding: — "It's  not  good-bye.  I 
shall  see  you  again  presently." 

The  gas  in  the  entrance  hall  was  flaring,  and  I  stopped  to 
adjust  it,  letting  Cooky  precede  me  into  the  drawing-room.  When 
I  followed,  I  was  exasperated  to  find  that  Ellen's  parson  had 
managed  to  get  in,  unheard  by  us  in  the  library,  and  was  shaking 
hands  with  Cooky,  with  a  subacute  benediction  in  his  manner. 
He  could  forgive  Calvary,  in  Society.  I  hope  I  did  not  touch  his 
meek  conciliatory  hand  too  abruptly.  I  doubt  if  I  succeeded  in 
concealing  the  feeling  which  manifested  itself  as  unalloyed  relief 
ten  minutes  later,  when  Gracey  said  to  me  privately: — "Get 
Monty  into  the  dining-room,  and  I'll  come."  I  welcomed  the 
suggestion,  and  in  spite  of  a  sudden  violent  solicitude  of  my  step- 
mother lest  the  fire  should  have  gone  out  in  the  proposed  haven, 
succeeded  in  forsaking  the  Rev.  Irenaeus,  who  pretended  to  be 
sorry,  and  wasn't. 

"I  shall  catch  it  from  Aunt  Helen    tomorrow,"  said  Gracey, 


344  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

following  us  very  shortly  after.  "  But  I  don't  care.  I  must  have 
Monty  the  rest  of  the  time.  Oh  dear,  it's  such  a  little  time  now !  " 
Cooky  said  nothing,  but  kept  looking  at  the  fire,  which  hadn't  gone 
out.  Then  Gracey  made  an  effort,  and  cheered  up.  "  Never 
mind !  "  said  she.  "  We  can  be  the  Club  for  more  than  a  hour 
yet.  Let's  be  the  Club !  "  So  we  made  up  the  fire,  and  were  reso- 
lute to  forget  the  shadow  of  the  coming  parting.  I  felt  the  strain 
on  my  courage;  but,  as  I  see  now,  was  strangely  blind  to  the 
much  greater  stress  that  was — must  have  been — felt  by  both  my 
companions. 

I  think  they  found  it  a  relief  to  make  believe  that  7  was  the 
principal  sufferer.  "Poor  Jackey!"  said  Gracey.  "Whatever  he 
will  do  without  you  to  look  after  him  and  keep  him  in  order, 
I  can't  imagine." 

"  Poor  little  Buttons,"  said  Cooky,  commiseratingly.  "  Hell 
have  to  scrat  on."  He  changed  his  tone  to  reassurance.  "  Oh — 
he's  going  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire.  I  shall  expect  him  to  have 
a  picture  on  the  line  at  the  Academy  by  the  time  I  come  back.  .  .  . 
Well — three  years  is  time  enough  for  that.  I  shall  turn  up  again 
in  three  years,  you'll  see!  I  shall  be  a  lieutenant." 

"Lieutenant  Moss.  So  you  will!"  said  Gracey.  "And  Nelly 
will  be  ...  Let's  talk  of  how  it  will  be.  I  like  to " 

I  interposed  an  impromptu  forecast  of  Ellen's  future.  "  Ellen 
will  be  a  she-Parson,  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  With  fifty  little  Par- 
sons, always  tumbling  off  the  Isle  of  Man  into  the  water."  I 
don't  think  I  should  have  ventured  on  this  phase  of  possibility, 
if  it  had  not  been  sanctioned,  as  it  were,  by  Ecclesiastical  asso- 
ciation. 

Cooky  rounded  off  and  softened  my  indiscretion  for  me.  "  They 
always  do  have  large  families,"  said  he,  "  but " 

I  said: — "Well — not  fifty  perhaps;  but  lots,  anyhow!  And 
Jemima  will  be  losing  her  looks." 

Gracey  objected.  "  That's  spiteful,  Jackey !  Fancy  Aunt  Helen ! 
She  won't  lose  her  looks  for  another  ten  years,  if  she  does  then. 
Isn't  she  a  wonderful  woman  for  forty-four,  Monty?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she's  that!  I  thought  she  was  thirty- 
nine." 

"So  she  was,  once.  But  do  you  remember  where  that  was? 
That  was  just  when  we  came  from  the  Square,  outside  in  the 
garden.  She  hasn't  kept  thirty-nine."  This  was  harking  back 
on  the  early  days.  These  ways  of  putting  things  were  under- 
stood by  the  Club. 

Thinking  over  it  now,  it  seems  to  me  that  Cooky  must  have 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  345 

flinched  from  memories  of  the  past.     That  would  account  for  the 
strain  that  seems  to  come  on  the  face  that  I  fifty  years  later 
recall  as  his  at  that  moment.     It  seems  to  shake  off  something 
with  an  effort,  as  he  says : — "  Your  Governor  will  have  chucked 
the  Office  by  then,  little  Buttons,  and  taken  his  pension." 
"And  Bert?    How  about  Bert?"  said  Gracey. 
"  Bother  Bert!"  said  I.     "She  doesn't  matter." 
"  Well — me  then !  "  said  Gracey.     "  /  matter." 
"Rather!"  said  Monty.     "Only  it's  prophesying!" 
"  Not  more  for  me  than  for  Papa  or  Aunt  Helen  or  Jackey. 
Now  prophesy,  Monty!     Don't  be  frightened.     Be  a  gipsy.     You 
look  rather  like  one,  you  know !  " 

Cooky  gave  an  uneasy  laugh.  His  answer  was  an  escape  from 
a  difficulty  through  an  exaggeration.  "  You'll  have  married  a 
Duke,"  said  he. 

"Shall  I?"  said  Gracey.  Neither  of  them  looked  at  the  other 
— both  at  the  fire.  I  remember  wondering  why  she,  so  pale  a 
moment  since,  should  flush  red.  Surely  that  was  not  the  fire- 
light? She  went  on  after  a  pause  of  silence: — "  No — Monty!  The 
Duke  will  have  to  wait  till  you  come  home.  Do  you  think  I  could 
marry  a  Duke,  or  anybody,  without  first  knowing  what  you  thought 
of  him?" 

I  have  a  theory  about  the  meaning  of  this  speech,  formed  since. 
It  meant: — "  We  may  not  love — we  cannot  marry.  Cold  friendship 
is  our  starvation  allowance,  but  our  souls  are  our  own,  and  mine 
is  yours."  This  was  too  much  then  for  my  boyish  capacity,  and 
I  took  all  they  said  for  joking — a  kind  of  joking. 

I  wonder  that  Cooky's  pale  set  face,  as  he  looked  up  from  the 
fire,  had  no  meaning  for  me.  "  It  would  be  no  use  consulting 
me.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  Duke.  Give  the  poor  beggar  a 
chance."  So  he  said,  and  I  failed  to  see  that  the  thin  veil  of  mock- 
ery in  his  words  and  hers  was  only  a  working  pretext  for  a  hint 
at  the  truth.  How  each  longed  to  say: — "I  love  you,  but  we 
must  part,  before  the  stupefying  necessity  of  a  world-old  super- 
stition." And  yet — which  of  them  could  speak  the  word  first. 
Not  the  girl,  certainly.  And  how  could  the  man  say  to  her: — 
"  I  fear  my  love  for  you,  and  must  fly  from  it,  as  I  cannot  face 
my  own  world  and  its  usage  of  centuries?"  For,  dwelling  on 
the  question  later,  I  certainly  have  suspected  Cooky  of  a  sort  of 
cowardice — his  only  cowardice — and  I  cannot  think  he  was  much 
influenced  by  official  ignorance  of  Gracey's  feelings  towards  him. 
It  was,  no  doubt,  correct  to  say  to  himself  that  possibly  she  looked 
on  him  as  an  object  of  unqualified  and  flavourless  friendship,  but 


346  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  suspect  the  perfunctory  recitation  of  this  formula  had  very  little 
weight  with  him. 

I  believe  that  that  fictitious  Duke  was  made  the  stalking-horse — 
if  one  may  put  it  so — of  a  compact  between  them.  In  the  con- 
versation that  followed,  at  that  last  meeting  of  the  Club,  I  remem- 
ber his  saying,  in  the  same  half -jesting  way: — "Now  mind  you 
write  and  tell  me  when  the  Duke  turns  up."  Whereto  Gracey 
replied,  with  every  appearance  of  meaning  what  she  said : — "  Yes — 
I  can  make  that  promise."  Then  the  conversation  went  off  sillily 
to  some  joke  about  the  Duke's  being  his  Grace,  and  her  being  his 
Gracey.  When,  many,  many  years  after  that,  I  found  the  letters 
Cooky  wrote  from  India,  in  a  drawer  where  she  had  put  them 
with  other  old  mementoes,  I  read  in  them  his  inquiries  about  this 
Duke,  and  knew  what  they  meant. 

If  I  had  had  more  tact,  I  think  I  should  have  left  them  alone. 
What  harm  could  it  have  done,  to  give  them  that  last  hour  to 
themselves?  The  die  was  cast,  for  him.  He  could  not  go  back 
on  his  undertaking  to  join  his  regiment.  And  that  necessity  would 
have  been  equally  binding  on  her  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  So 
I  might  just  as  well  have  had  now  the  satisfaction  of  thinking 
that  the  shortness  of  their  last  interview  was  not  due  to  my  boy- 
ish stupidity.  I  was,  however,  not  destined  to  be  de  trop  through 
the  whole  of  it. 

For  after  half-an-hour's  conversation,  weighed  always  with  their 
superfluous  semi-jocularity,  I  thought  I  heard  Varnish  afar,  in- 
quiring for  Master  Jackey.  "  Suppose  you  go  and  see  what  she 
wants,  little  Buttons!"  said  Cooky. 

I  went,  and  found  Varnish  on  the  landing,  who  threw  open 
the  door  of  her  private  den  so  conclusively,  that  I  walked  in. 
"  I  was  just  upon  putting  out  my  light,  Master  Jackey,"  said  she. 
"  Because  Raynes,  she's  gone  down  to  the  kitchen.  So  just  you 
come  along  in,  and  tell  me !  Where's  your  pa  ?  " 

"  Finished  his  pipe  and  gone  into  the  drawing-room.  I  heard 
them  all  jawing,  just  now.  The  Archbishop  sneaked  in  some- 
how, while  we  were  in  the  library,  and  he's  there  now,  looking 
like  a  fool." 

"Where's  Miss  Ellen?"  said  Varnish. 

"  Sitting  on  the  Archbishop's  knee,"  said  I,  boldly. 

"Get  along  with  you,  Master  Jackey!  Both  of  them  know  bet- 
ter than  to.  And  the  family  all  there — looking  and  seeing!  " 

"  There  was  only  Jemima,  when  I  came  out.    She's  nobody." 

"  She  don't  think  so  herself,  I  lay.  But  where  are  Mr.  Monty 
and  Miss  Gracey  then?" 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  347 

"  In  the  dining-room.  There's  a  fire.  We  all  three  hooked 
it  out  of  the  drawing-room  to  talk.  Cooky's  not  coming  again — 
you  know?  At  least  not  till  he's  back  from  India."  The  only 
reason  why  I  was  so  positive  of  his  return,  was  that  any  other 
issue  was  altogether  too  bad  to  entertain,  or  at  least  to  recognize 
officially. 

A  satisfied  look  came  on  Varnish's  face.  "  There  now,  Master 
Jackey,"  she  said,  ''just  you  leave  them  be.  They  can  do  with- 
out you  for  a  bit." 

"  Oh  yes — they're  all  right."  I  felt  that  I  could  safely  re- 
assure Varnish.  "  They're  not  much  in  the  dumps,  either  of 
them.  You  see,  he'll  be  six  weeks  on  the  rbad,  and  by  the  time 
he  gets  there  all  this  row  will  be  over.  I'm,  not  in  a  funk  about 
Cooky."  I  believe  that  in  saying  this  I  conceived  that  I  was 
offering  manly  assurance  to  female  timidity — soothing  the  panic 
of  an  alarmist.  I  don't  suppose  that  Varnish  took  the  slightest 
notice  of  my  well-intentioned  efforts  in  the  interest  of  her  nerv- 
ous system, 

"Miss  Gracey  and  Master  Monty,"  said  she,  "they're  very  old 
friends  by  now." 

"  Rather!  "  said  I.  "  Why — I  was  a  small  kid  at  school  that  time 
Cooky  came  home  with  me,  and  the  Governor  christened  him 
Nebuchadnezzar.  Cooky  said  Nebuchadnezzar  wasn't  really  King 
of  the  Jews,  only  it  didn't  matter."  I  did  not  further  revive 
the  controversy  that  took  place  at  the  time,  because  the  author- 
ity for  the  Kingship  of  the  Assyrian  monarch  over  Judah  and 
Israel  occurs  only  in  a  poem  the  censorship  should  have  sup- 
'pressed.  I  continued  : — ''  Oh  yes — awfully  old  friends !  Gracey 
doesn't  half  like  his  going.  But  that's  only  because  she  thinks 
he  may  get  killed." 

"  Miss  Gracey  and  Master  Monty,"  said  Varnish,  looking  at 
me  with  a  curious  attentive  look,  "  won't  be  in  any  hurry  to 
forget  one  another."  She  waited,  to  hear  my  answer. 

It  came,  decisively  if  not  lucidly.     "Who  wants  them  to?" 

"  Ah — you  may  say  who,  Master  Jackey !  " 

"Well — who,  then?     The  Governor  doesn't.     Sure  he  doesn't!" 

"He's  one,  doesn't.     And  Miss  Ellen,  she's  another — p'rhaps!" 

"  Oh — Ellen  doesn't  count.     You  mean  Jemima." 

"Well,  Master  Jackey,  suppose  I  do?" 

I  reflected.  "  She  oughtn't  to  count.  She  isn't  in  it.  How 
does  she  make  out  it's  any  concern  of  hers?" 

Varnish  was  unfavourable  to  consecutive  reasonings,  analytical 
processes,  discrimination  of  cause  and  effect.  She  preferred  her 


348  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

own  unsullied  conclusions,  arrived  at  without  data,  or  fuss  of 
any  sort.  '*  She  don't  want  Master  Monty  back  again,  your  step- 
inar  don't,"  said  she,  decisively. 

"Not  if  he  marries  a  she-Jew?"  said  I.     . 

"  Not  anyhow.  Now,  Master  Jackey,  you  bear  in  mind  the  ex- 
pression I  called  Miss  Evans  when  I  could  take  the  liberty  of 
speaking.  You  remember  that  expression  ?  " 

"Cat!"  said  I,  uncompromisingly.    u  Sly  cat!" 

"  Sh — sh,  Master  Jackey !  Whatever  it  was,  I  called  it  her  then, 
but  you  never  hear  me  call  her  nothing  now." 

"Why  not?     /  don't  care." 

"  Any  lady  your  papa  marries,  Master  Jackey,  I  could  wish  to 
speak  well  of.  And  calling  Cat  is  not  respectful,  say  it  who  may. 
So  I  say  nothing,  now.  But  she  don't  want  Master  Monty  back 
again,  for  all  that,  and  she  has  her  reasons.  But  it's  not  for  me 
to  say  anything." 

Varnish  was  ascribing  to  Jemima  no  reason  for  wishing  to 
get  rid  of  Monty  except  that  she  thought  further  development  of 
his  attachment  to  Gracey  undesirable;  or,  if  so,  she  said  nothing 
explicit  about  it  to  me.  I  for  my  part  took  her  enigmatical  man- 
ner to  be  warranted  by  the  reluctance  I  was  then  beginning  to 
notice,  and  have  noticed  a  good  deal  since,  to  say  nothing  what- 
ever, plainly,  about  a  love-affair.  It  is  made  up  for,  to  some 
extent,  by  a  great  alacrity  in  waggery,  a  ready  supply  of  nods 
and  winks  and  lip-telegraphy  short  of  whispers,  an  instantaneous 
reciprocal  understanding  that  puts  bystanders  at  a  loss.  All  this 
may  be  supplemented  by  archness.  But  did  any  one  ever  say 
pointblank: — ''John  loves  Jenny,  and  Jenny  loves  John,  and 
they  want  to  get  married."  Oh  dear,  no! — he  always  says  he 
suspected  something  there — has  done  so  for  a  long  time.  And 
he  and  his  accomplice  in  tattle  seem  mightily  amused  at  this 
something! 

No  doubt  Varnish  thought  me  just  too  young  to  be  alive  to 
the  seriousness  of  that  mystery,  Love.  It  was  no  accepted  con- 
vention as  to  its  treatment  that  made  her  speech  obscure;  but  as 
I  suppose,  a  wish  to  suggest  something  to  my  unreceptive  mind 
to  help  it  to  a  complete  understanding  of  the  situation.  I  had 
shown  a  feeble  receptivity  in  that  surmise  that  a  change  would 
come  about  if  Cooky  found  a  mate  among  his  own  people,  and 
Varnish  was  ready  with  a  handful  of  seed  for  the  ground  half- 
tilled. 

Nevertheless,  unless  my  memory  is  at  fault,  her  manner  was 
odd.  I  am  ready,  however,  to  suppose  that  my  recollection  of  it 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  349 

colours,  or  discolours,  what  she  seems  to  me  now  to  have  said 
at  the  end  of  this  short  interview,  before  I  rejoined  Gracey  and 
Monty  downstairs. 

For  she  seems  to  me,  after  repeating  a  second  time  that  it's 
not  for  her  to  say  anything,  to  continue  thus: — "Anyways,  I 
know  what  Miss  Roberta  would  say,  speaking  her  free  mind  like 
she  does,  and  can,  being  at  Roehampton."  This  local  reference 
was  not  what  puzzled  me,  being  nothing  but  a  daring  omission  of 
explanation.  It  was  what  followed : — "  What  now  was  the  name 
of  the  doctor  you  saw  ?  Dr.  Partner  Harris  (  " 

"  Mr.  Parminter  Harris,  with  a  plaid  scarf  and  giglamps.  But 
he's  Dr.  Scammony's  partner."  This  was  to  extenuate  Varnish's 
misreading  of  the  name. 

She  nodded  an  assent  to  some  thought  of  her  own,  and  said, 
quite  or  nearly  inexplicably: — "And  Master  Monty  living  in 
Doughty  Street,  close  handy.  That's  what  Miss  Roberta  would 
say,  anyhow! " 

"  You  mean,"  said  I,  fishing  for  illumination,  "  what  he  said 
about  Jemima  being  the  governess?" 

"  That's  the  bit  you  heard,"  was  the  reply.  And  my  powers 
of  recollection  serve  me  no  further.  We  certainly  talked  a  minute 
or  so  longer,  making  a  foundation  for  a  superstructure  I  built 
afterwards,  to  the  effect  that  Jemima  would  welcome  any  dis- 
sociation from  such  as  had  known  her  at  the  Square,  and  also 
their  dissociation,  so  far  as  it  was  possible,  from  one  another. 
Or  at  least  that  my  married  sister,  "  Miss  Roberta,"  would  say 
so;  that  being,  as  it  were.  Varnish's  stalking-horse  from  which 
to  promulgate  this  view  of  the  subject.  She  reined  it  up  sud- 
denly to  say  to  me : — "  I  lay  it's  time  for  you  to  be  going  back. 
Squire!"  I  thought  it  might  be,  for  anything  I  knew  to  the 
contrary,  and  went. 

I  stopped  earnest  conversation  in  the  dining-room;  and,  strange 
as  it  seems  to  me  now,  did  not  see  why  I  should  not  do  so.  They 
had  had  their  innings,  according  to  my  ideas.  And  here  was 
Cooky,  going  away  for  good,  in  less  than  an  hour's  time!  I  was 
beginning  to  be  awake  to  the  uncomfortable  reality  of  parting. 

They  were  not  close  together,  and  I  think  I  understand  that 
now,  when  I  look  back  and  see  what  their  relation  really  was 
at  that  moment.  She — so  afterthought  on  the  matter  tells  me — 
had  been,  for  longer  than  he  knew,  the  ruling  force  of  his  life, 
although  the  correctitudes  of  nationality  and  creed  had  forbidden 
him  to  think  her  so.  He  had  been  the  same  to  her,  but  more 
safeguardedly,  under  the  reserves  every  girl  has  to  make  to- 


350  OLD  MAX'S  YOUTH 

wards  any  man  who  has  not  laid  his  heart  open  to  her.  Her 
course  of  conduct  had  only  been  the  one  hundreds  of  women  have 
to  put  in  practice;  indeed,  my  own  suspicion  is  that  most  women's 
experience  teaches  them  at  least  sympathy  with  those  who  have 
to  practise  it.  He  had  presumed  a  little — or  had  he  not? — on  the 
claim  the  superior  creature  Man  makes  to  priority  of  action, 
which  it  has  pleased  him  to  determine  is  a  fundamental  essential 
of  human  nature.  Poor  Cooky !  If  he  had  done  so  he  had  been 
over-confident  of  his  own  self-mastery.  And  now  the  terrible 
moment  had  come,  when  all  his  fortitude  was  to  be  put  to  the 
test.  I  can  see  now  plainly  why  he  dared  not  go  too  near  the 
lips  he  was  not  to  kiss.  But  courage! — if  he  could  counterfeit 
friendship  for  another  hour,  it  would  be  all  over,  and  it  would  be 
open  to  both  to  make  believe  that  they  had  kept  their  hearts 
bolted  and  barred  against  Love. 

The  two  earnest  voices  died  down  as  I  came  down  into  the 
room,  and  the  only  words  I  caught  were,  "  Well — we  shall  see," 
from  Gracey.  I  asked  her  afterwards  what  they  had  been  talk- 
ing of  when  I  came  in,  and  she  said,  "  Oh — nothing ! "  and  she 
had  forgotten. 

As  I  remember,  we  sat  silent,  or  said  very  little.  It  was  the 
first  and  only  time  the  Club  had  found  itself  tongue-tied.  Cooky 
might  have  been  stone,  so  still  was  his  face  and  so  white,  as 
he  stood  with  his  elbow  against  the  mantelshelf,  his  free  hand 
making  some  pretence  of  using  the  poker  to  economize  a  coal 
which  had  to  maintain  the  character  of  the  fire,  doomed  to  short 
life  by  an  empty  scuttle.  I  was  fool  enough  to  be  glad  to  note 
that.  Gracey's  large  blue  eyes  were  free  of  tears,  to  which  I  had 
at  that  time  of  my  life  an  amazingly  strong  objection.  But  I 
was  not  clever  enough  to  understand  why  her  lips  moved  so  un- 
easily, nor  why  her  fingers  interlaced  and  caught,  convulsively.  I 
know  now,  and  know  what  she  felt,  and  why. 

I  thought,  in  the  silence,  I  had  never  heard  the  black  marble 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  tick  so  loud.  Indeed,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  had  never  noticed  that  this  clock  did  tick,  though  I  had 
known  it  from  babyhood.  I  had  accepted  it  as  a  fact,  that  would  tell 
the  time,  and  that  went.  Some  one  else  always  wound  it  up,  in  the 
nature  of  things;  but,  as  for  its  tick,  it  was  always  there,  and 
had  gone  on  steadily — in  vain  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I  felt 
now  as  if  it  had  become  vociferous,  and  was  shouting  that  it  was 
a  quarter-to-eleven,  our  official  day's  end.  And  I  was  not  grateful. 

Cooky  looked  suddenly  at  his  watch,  and  broke  the  silence. 
"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  go  into  the  drawing-room 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  351 

again,  and  get  my  good-bying  done,  and  then  come  back  here." 
This  postponed  the  evil  climax,  if  only  a  few  minutes,  and  was 
welcome. 

"What  were  you  and  Varnish  talking  about  upstairs,  Jackey?" 
said  Gracey,  when  Cooky  had  left  the  room. 

I  had  to  stop  a  moment  to  consider  what.  Varnish  really  had 
been  saying,  so  enigmatical  had  her  share  of  the  conversation 
been.  I  decided  on,  ''  Pitching  into  Jemima,"  as  a  good,  safe, 
general  inference.  Then  I  qualified  it : — "  Or,  at  least,  saying 
what  Bert  would  say,  only  she  means  she  agrees." 

u  What  did  she  say  Bert  would  say  ? " 

It  was  one  of  my  misfortunes,  in  youth,  that  I  never  could  stand 
cross-examination.  I  was  sorry  I  had  said  so  much,  and  tried 
to  back  out.  "  Oh — well — she  doesn't  really  mean  it,  you  know." 

"  But  what  doesn't  she  really  mean  ?  Don't  bottle  up,  Jackey 
darling!  Tell  me  right  out." 

Then  I  saw  how  really  anxious  Gracey  was  to  know.  And  how 
could  I  have  any  secrets  from  Gracey?  ''She's  got  hold  of  an 
idea,"  said  I,  "  that  Jemima  isn't  sorry  Cookv's  going." 

"But  why?" 

I  felt  my  difficulties.  I  had  to  manage  confession,  somehow, 
without  direct  reference  to  the  thing  I  had  to  confess.  I  was 
not  prepared  to  admit  that  any  iendresse,  or  anything  beyond  cor- 
dial friendship,  had  been  ascribed  to  my  friend  and  my  sister. 
But  I  was  beginning  to  feel  the  nature  of  the  position.  I  an- 
swered : — '*  I  suppose  it's  because  Cooky's  a  Jew." 

Gracey  seemed  to  accept  this  as  an  unfinished  speech,  waiting 
as  though  to  hear  more.  Then  she  said  interrogatively: — 
"  That  .  .  .  ?  "  as  though  asking  me  to  complete  my  sentence. 

"  That  what  ?  "  said  I. 

"That  he  ought  to  go  and  get  killed  in  India?  .  .  .  Monty 
ought ?" 

"  N — no !    That  Jemima  doesn't  cotton  to  him." 

But  Gracey  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  a  makeshift.  "  Why 
doesn't  Aunt  Helen  cotton  to  Monty  because  he's  a  Jew?"  said 
she.  That  meant,  why  did  Jemima  allow  herself  to  be  influenced 
by  racial  and  religious  considerations  in  a  case  where  the  person- 
ality of  their  subject  cancelled  them  at  sight?  Indeed,  I  had  heard 
her  admit,  in  controversy  with  Gracey,  the  extreme  improbability 
of  Cooky  taking  part  in  orgies  wherein  the  blood  of  young  Chris- 
tians was  decanted  for  unholy  purposes,  whatever  the  practice 
of  St.  Mary  Axe  and  Palestine  might  be. 

I  was  hiding  one  aspect  of  the  case  from  Gracey,  and  I  knew 


352  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

it.  And  yet,  why  should  there  be  secrets  between  us.  This  was 
contrary  to  nature,  surely.  I  bethought  me  of  an  indirect  way 
of  grappling  with  the  subject,  which  had  served  me  well  before. 
"  I  don't  expect,"  said  I,  "  that  Jemima  would  be  so  fierce  about 
it  if  Cooky  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  she-Jew." 

Then  I  saw  how  that  restless  working  of  her  fingers  grew, 
and  heard  the  tremor  in  her  voice  as  she  said : — ''  Oh.  Jackey, 
do  you  mean  that  Monty  is  going  to  India  to  be  killed  because 
of  me?" 

I  said : — "  That's  not  the  way  to  put  it.  Cooky's  going  to 
India  because  he  wants  to  be  a  soldier.  Perhaps  if  he  was  en- 
gaged to  Miss  Solomons,  Jemima  wouldn't  be  glad  he  was  going. 
That's  about  all.  It's  only  Jemima." 

"Jackey  darling,  be  a  good  boy  and  talk  seriously.  Look  now! 
It  isn't  as  if  Monty  and  I  didn't  both  know.  We  know  we  can't. 
I  see  we  can't.  You  see  we  can't  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  understand  quite  well.  Because  of  this  beastly  Chris- 
tianity  "  I  was  stopped  by  the  want  of  the  word  Judaism,  not 

one  familiar  to  my  lips,  and  had  to  find  a  substitute.  I  added, 
after  a  pause: — "And  Jewification." 

Gracey  was  not  Ellen,  and  tolerated  my  language,  taking  no 
notice  of  it.  "  That's  right.  That's  how  it  is.  But  we  can't 
help  it.  We  can't  alter  things.  What  must  be,  must.  But  why 
must  we  lose  Monty  because  we  cannot  be  ...  because  of  ... 
because  of  that?"  I  noticed — or  my  memory  notices  now — that 
an  excruciation  came  in  her  voice  whenever  it  flinched  from  speech 
about  Love  or  Marriage.  Also  I  think  now  that  she  found  it 
easier  always  to  speak  of  our  joint  affection  for  Monty  than  of 
her  own  alone.  Mine  was  sponsor  for  hers,  and  all  that  I  felt 
at  his  departure  she  had  an  unquestioned  right  to  feel. 

I  think  I  half-understood  this  then;  for,  after  attempting,  trans- 
parently enough,  to  revive  an  ungrounded  confidence  in  the  early 
extinction  of  the  Mutiny,  and  the  security  in  the  near  future  of 
the  Ninth  Lancers,  I  ventured  on  an  unwarranted  forecast: — "I 
say,  Gracey,  how  do  we  know  they  won't  have  put  a  stopper  on  all 
that  rot  by  the  time  he's  back?  It  may  be  three  years,  you 
know ! '  I  don't  know  who  were  the  "  they "  I  was  referring 
to.  But  I  was  giving  them  short  allowance  of  Time,  consider- 
ing the  strength  of  the  convictions  they  would  have  had  to  sur- 
render. 

•'Silly  Jackey!"  said  Gracey.  And  then,  hearing  the  drawing- 
room  door  open  and  close,  we  let  the  subject  drop,  for  Cooky 
was  coming.  The  moment  was  at  hand — terribly  near  now!  I 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  353 

could  see  how  ashy  white  both  my  companions  were,  and  could 
feel  how  their  hearts  beat,  as  indeed  mine  began  to  do,  too. 
For  I  was  getting  to  a  fuller  understanding  of  their  position 
rapidly. 

"Is  the  Governor  coming  out?"  said  I,  to  break  the  silence, 
which  was  oppressive;  all  the  more  so  that  Cooky  came  into  the 
room  almost  as  one  enters  a  sick  chamber,  closing  the  door 
gently. 

'•  I  think  not,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  husky.  "  I  didn't 
ask  him  not  to,  but  I  fancy  he  won't."  Then  he  made  an  effort 
to  speak  more  unconcernedly,  and  seemed  to  find  a  relief  in  a 
subject  with  a  smile  in  it.  "  The  Archbishop  is  just  gathering 
up  to  tear  himself  away.  He  knows  he  mustn't  stop  after 
eleven."  I  helped  with  a  rather  perfunctory  laugh. 

Gracey  ignored  the  Archbishop,  without  a  smile.  "  When  shall 
we  get  our  first  letter?"  said  she. 

He  made  a  great  effort  to  pull  himself  together.  "  I  shall 
have  a  long  letter  ready,  in  case  we  put  in  at  Madeira,"  said 
he.  and  his  would-be  cheerful  tone  was  as  bad  as  any  depres- 
sion. "  Anyhow,  I  shall  send  a  line  from  Southampton.  They 
say  the  weather's  going  to  be  good.  Of  course,  it  will  be  a  bit  ^  • 
rough  in  the  Bay.  It  always  is.  But  it  won't  hurt  me.  The 
sea  doesn't.  Some  of  our  officers  are  going  overland  to  Suez. 
I  don't  envy  them — I  would  sooner  go  the  long  way.  Only  they 
will  have  forgotten  all  about  the  Mutiny  by  the  time  we  get 
there." 

"  I  hope  they  will,"  said  Gracey.  But  she  made  no  response 
to  his  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  and  it  would  have  been  useless, 
with  that  white  face  and  that  tremor  on  her  lips.  He  stuck 
bravely  to  the  task  he  had  assigned  himself,  the  playing  out  his 
part  to  the  end,  and  chatted  on  about  how,  when  he  came  back, 
it  might  be  through  the  new  canal,  which  at  this  time  was 
discredited  in  England  as  rather  a  canal  in  the  clouds,  so  that 
his  reference  to  it  was  scarcely  serious.  But  it  did  not  help  him 
much;  his  pleasantry  over  it  was  too  mechanical.  I  was  not 
sorry  when  Gracey  said: — "Hush,  don't  talk!  There's  the  Arch- 
bishop going.  They'll  hear  us."  Whereupon  we  were  silent,  and 
sounds  of  dispersal  and  departure  followed,  ending  up  with  some 
bed-room  candlestick  finalities  in  the  lobby,  and  a  retreat  to 
roost,  complicated  with  the  appearance  of  the  household,  or  some 
of  it.  to  shut  up.  Then  silence  without,  and  Cooky  saying 
huskily,  through  a  long-drawn  breath : — "  Well — I  shall  have  to 
go  in  the  end.  Better  make  it  now,  and  get  done  with  it!" 


354  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

What  follows  is  strong  in  my  memory.  As  Cooky  takes  his 
farewell  clasp  of  my  hand,  his  lies  on  my  shoulder.  "  Good- 
bye, dear  little  ehap,"  he  says,  speaking  to  me  always  as  though 
I  were  still  the  very  small  schoolboy  in  need  of  protection.  I 
am  aware  that  Gracey's  side-face,  as  she  turned  away,  has  a 
bitten  underlip;  but  I  am  thankful  to  feel  that  she  will  not  break 
down.  Indeed,  my  great  anxiety  is  that  we  may  all  comport  our- 
selves immovably,  like  Hurons  or  Iroquois.  My  own  belief  is 
that  many  male  cubs  share  this  mental  attitude.  Emotion  is  the 
one  thing  to  avoid. 

I  am  further  relieved  when  Cooky  says  Amen  to  our  particular 
farewell,  utilizing — as  I  now  conjecture — a  slight  noise  in  the 
passage  to  terminate  it.  "  See  if  that  isn't  your  Governor,  not 
gone  to  bed,"  he  says.  I  go,  to  see. 

The  noise  was  my  Governor,  pausing  doubtfully,  with  a  bed- 
room candle  near  the  stairfoot.  "  I  hear  the  Knight  Errant 
hasn't  gone,"  says  he.  "  I  mean  Nebuchadnezzar." 

"  Oh  no — Cooky's  there,  all  right  enough.  He'll  be  going 
directly."  ^ 

"  Yes — go  in  here,"  says  he,  pushing  the  library  door.  I  have 
made  no  suggestion  to  that  effect,  but  I  accept  his.  "  I  told 
Raynes  not  to  wait  up  to  lock  up,"  he  says,  and  I  perceive  his 
compressed  meaning.  He  keeps  the  door  ajar  as  he  stands  there 
listening  for  the  final  farewells  in  the  room  opposite.  He  may 
have  heard  more  than  I,  for  he  says : — "  I  thought  so,"  to  him- 
self, although  my  hearing  it  was  immaterial. 

I  can  hear  no  more  than  that  the  two  voices  are  strained, 
and  that  there  are  tears  in  Gracey's.  Then,  at  last,  that  he  is 
going,  and  the  door  is  opened,  making  words  here  and  there 
audible.  For  all  that  their  tension  is  so  palpable,  I  can  dis- 
tinguish this — that  up  to  this  moment  neither  has  played  ill  the 
part  conventions  have  dictated.  They  are  two  friends,  look  you, 
still!  No  more  than  that — two  friends  whose  journey  is  along 
roads  apart,  for  awhile  yet,  but  who  will  meet  again  when  the 
roads  meet,  three  days  hence;  or  weeks,  or  years,  as  may  be. 
And  from  their  voices  in  the  passage  I  can  tell  that  each  is 
bravely  struggling  to  play  out  this  part  to  the  last.  They  are 
almost  making  a  parade  of  their  farewell,  being  but  as  other 
farewells — an  unusually  normal  one  even! 

I  wanted  to  follow  them,  or  at  least  to  be  in  time  to  catch 
Cooky  and  walk  with  him  so  far  as  he  went  afoot,  for  I  clung 
to  the  last  moment.  But  my  father  said,  "  No — stop ! "  and 
remained,  listening.  Presently  he  said: — "I  said  good-bye  to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  355 

Nebuchadnezzar.  But  the  Father  of  the  Church  was  there,  and 
we  didn't  exactly  have  it  to  ourselves.  Just  you  peep  out,  and 
report  progress.  When  they're  done,  I'll  come  out  and  say  good- 
bye again." 

I  stole  out  cautiously  towards  the  front  door,  hearing  as  I 
went  the  words  "  Good-bye  "  from  her,  in  a  breaking  voice,  and 
from  him  "Yes — now  good-bye,"  very  huskily  spoken.  But  his 
speech  ended  in  an  audible  gasp,  and  there  came  a  cry  from  her : — 
"  Oh,  Monty,  Monty,  we  shall  never  see  each  other  again !  "  Their 
resolution  had  broken  down,  just  at  the  last  moment. 

To  find  whether  I  might  legitimately  join  them,  to  stop  his 
running  away  without  me,  and  also  to  say  that  the  Governor 
was  just  coming  out,  I  looked  furtively  round  the  corner  of  the 
door.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me  that  they  should  be  fast  locked 
in  each  other's  arms.  The  other  way  round  would  have  been  the 
surprise — to  hear  a  cold  good-bye  of  any  sort,  a  mere  conventional 
valediction !  What  is  strange  to  me  now  is  that  I  remember  so 
distinctly  a  feeling  of  grievance  that  my  manhood  and  Cooky's 
stood  in  the  way  of  my  hugging  my  farewell  into  him  also. 
Think  of  what  he  had  been  to  me  for  so  many  years ! 

It  may  be  that  the  words  I  overheard  then  did  more  to  show 
me  what  I  had  not  understood  before,  than  anything  that  pre- 
ceded them.  ''Dearest — forgive  me — I  could  not  help  myself! 
Oh,  I  must  go — I  must  go — I  have  to  go!"  My  impression  is 
that  Gracey  said : — "  Dear  Monty,  forgive  you  kissing  me !  Oh, 
why  not  ?  "  But  as  he  repeated,  with  a  voice  that  caught.  "  I 
must  go,"  I,  fearing  that  he  might  go  without  seeing  me,  called 
out  to  stop  him,  saying  he  should  wait  to  say  good-bye  to  the 
Governor.  He  would  not  wait,  and  Gracey  came  in  and  passed 
me  quickly,  stopping  a  second  to  put  up  her  cheek  to  her  father, 
who  only  said,  as  he  kissed  it: — ''Poor  child,  good-night." 

"  I'll  catch  Cooky  and  walk  a  little  way  with  him,"  said  I, 
hurrying  into  my  great  coat.  M'y  father  said : — "  Well — take  the 
door-key."  And  then,  as  this  involved  some  lock  adjustment  and 
delay: — ''Never  mind — trot  away!  I  shan't  be  going  to  bed  just 
yet.  Only  don't  be  too  long."  So  I  got  away  as  quick  as  I  could. 
But  I  did  not  catch  Cooky,  and  his  first  letter  told  us  he  had 
jumped  into  a  hansom  just  outside  the  gate  into  King's  Road; 
so  it  was  little  wonder. 

I  think  I  ran  as  far  as  the  ironmonger's  expecting  to  overtake 
him,  but  only  overtaking  the  previous  omnibus  and  seeing  he  was 
not  in  it.  I  went  back  and  found  my  father  finishing  a  letter,  and 
we  locked  up  and  said  good-night  on  the  landing.  I  did  not 


356  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

catch  what  he  said  to  my  stepmother,  who  said  something  to  him 
as  he  entered  his  room.  But  I  am  pretty  sure  her  reply  was:— 
"Oh,  my  dear,  what  nonsense!  Girls  must  sometimes,  whether 
they  like  it  or  no.  Why — it  would  have  been  simply  awful!" 
I  could  imagine  a  context,  but  I  see  no  object  in  doing  so. 

Whether  I  heard  Gracey  crying  in  her  room  as  I  passed  the 
door,  or  only  thought  she  must  be  crying,  I  do  not  know.  Fifty 
years  is  a  long  time,  and  I  often  doubt  if  what  I  seem  to  remem- 
ber so  well  is  not  a  mere  fetch  of  Memory — an  effort  to  assuage 
the  hunger  of  Oblivion. 

I  know  the  news  came  in  the  Spring — the  news  of  his  death, 
I  mean.  I  am  all  at  fault  now  about  the  story  of  it — the  phase 
of  the  Mutiny  that  was  active  at  the  time.  If  I  had  to  guide  any 
historian  to  accuracy  of  place  and  hour,  there  is  nothing  I  could 
swear  to  except  that  it  occurred  very  shortly  after  the  death  of 
Havelock.  But  then  I  am  equally  certain  that  Cooky  was  killed  in 
the  attack  on  Cawnpore.  And  had  not  Havelock  taken  Cawnpore 
in  the  Summer,  so  that  we  had  the  news  of  it  shortly  before  Cooky 
sailed  in  the  Autumn?  I  have  got  the  whole  thing  inextricably 
muddled.  But,  after  all,  what  does  it  matter? 

I  only  remember  the  coming  of  the  news.  It  came  the  day  after 
Ellen's  wedding.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my  father  connived 
at  the  shortness  of  his  eldest  daughter's  engagement,  in  order 
.that  he  might  be  released  the  earlier  from  the  respectful  visits  of 
the  Archbishop,  who  came  up  from  the  remote  Isle  of  Man  not 
less  than  three  times.  Of  course  he  came  every  day  to  the  shrine 
of  his  Goddess;  puzzling  me  extremely,  for — said  I  to  myself — 
what  he  wants  so  much  of  Ellen  for  I  can't  imagine!  I  have  seen 
couples  both  of  the  constituents  of  which  have  appeared  to  me 
repugnant  to  human  nature,  and  have  marvelled  why  they  have  not 
been  so  to  one  another.  Without  saying  so  much  of  this  pair,  I 
certainly  felt  impressed  with  the  Wisdom  of  Providence,  which 
had  presumably  incited  their  mutual  flame,  as  a  setoff  against  the 
indifference  of  the  remainder  of  mankind  to  both.  Anyhow, 
wedded  they  were,  at  St.  Luke's  Chelsea,  and  got  rid  of  in  a 
shower  of  three-pennyworth  of  rice  and  one  old  slipper.  After 
which,  a  survival  of  wedding  guests,  dispersing  gradually,  disguised 
the  fact  that  the  remainder  of  the  day  had  been  destroyed  for 
any  useful  purpose,  at  least  so  far  as  the  bride's  family  were 
concerned.  The  said  guests  were  better  off,  at  least  in  so  far  as 
that  they  were  able  to  shake  free  of  a  sort  of  spray  of  crumbs  and 
cake,  pulled  crackers  and  sugar  plums;  to  say  nothing  of  two 
very  young  bridesmaids — one  of  whom  ate  too  many  macaroons 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  357 

— whose  nurse  was  bidden  to  come  for  them,  but  could  not  find  the 
house  to  take  them  home  as  appointed.  There  were  other  afflic- 
tions, to  wit,  a  respectable  man  who  came  out  on  jobs  of  the 
sort,  and  devoted  himself  to  preventing  the  guests  getting  what 
they  wanted,  and  which  is  what  is  called  waiting;  and  a  modern 
version — as  I  suppose — of  Sneak's  noise,  which  cited  the  Past  as  a 
justification  of  its  unwelcome  presence,  but  thought  ten  shillings 
too  little,  and  got  more. 

However,  Ellen's  nuptials  only  occur  to  my  mind  because  they 
fix  a  date.  Next  morning  found  the  four  survivors  of  the  previous 
day  mysteriously  eager  to  see  the  announcement  of  the  ceremony 
in  The  Times,  each  attempting  to  capture  the  advertisement-sheet 
when  Raynes  brought  it  in  out  of  the  wet  into  which  a  miscreant 
called  The  Boy  had  flung  it  over  the  garden  gate.  It  seemed  a 
consolation  for  yesterday's  sufferings,  but  I  don't  know  why.  I 
feel  certain  that  even  my  father  shared  this  feeling;  though,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  concealed  it.  "  I  can't  imagine,"  said  he.  "  why 
you  want  to  see  the  blessed  advertisement.  Aren't  you  convinced 
they  are  married?  " 

<%  I'm  not,  for  one!  "  said  Gracey.  "  One  likes  to  see  it  in  print, 
anyhow.  Let  me  look,  Aunt  Helen,  you've  got  all  the  paper." 
She  ran  through  the  text  half-aloud,  ending  audibly: — "'Ellen 
Wigram  eldest  daughter  of  Nathaniel  Pascoe ' — that's  you ! — 
'  Esquire.'  But  you  haven't  put  when  she  was  born." 

"  My  dear! "  said  my  stepmother.  "  What  nonsense  you  are 
talking!  You're  thinking  of  funerals."  Gracey  denied  this,  and 
affirmed  that  of  course  advertisements  of  weddings  always  gave 
the  ages  of  the  couple.  But  she  retracted,  after  a  short  excursion 
among  the  other  announcements,  saying: — "Well — it  was  a  mis- 
take." 

My  father  maintained  a  show  of  stoical  indifference,  but  I 
noticed  that  when  The  Times  was  ultimately  yielded  to  him,  he 
glanced  at  the  advertisement  sheet  en  passant  in  folding  it  back 
so  as  to  get  at  the  latest  intelligence.  He  could  do  this  without 
prejudice  to  his  self-respect,  as  the  task  of  adjustment  was  com- 
plicated. Then  he  got  at  the  leaders  and  the  summary,  and  be- 
came absorbed. 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  talk."  said  I,  continuing  the  conversation 
the  advent  of  The  Times  had  interrupted.  "  But  I  saw  Nankivell, 
with  my  own  eyes,  carry  away  a  bottle  of  champagne  two-thirds 
full,  and  bring  in  a  full  one  that  had  just  popped.  And  Varnish 
says  Raynes  says  Thomas  had  to  see  him  home.  So  there!" 
Nankivell  was  the  respectable  hireling,  over  whom  Thomas,  his 


358  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

friend  had  endeavoured  to  draw  a  veil,  saying  he  had  never 
known  him  touch  anything,  or  he  would  not  have  spoken  for  him. 
I  think  Thomas  had  better  have  stopped  at  that,  and  not  tried  to 
whitewash  Mr.  Nankivell  further  by  saying  it  was  his  eyesight. 
Amblyopia  does  not  cause  inarticulate  speech,  nor  ill-judged  jocu- 
larity. 

"  One  has  to  allow  them  a  little  latitude  at  weddings,"  said 
my  stepmother,  looking  handsome,  and  eating  nothing.  She  had 
had  a  bad  night,  as  I  understood.  This  habit  of  sleeping  ill 
seemed  to  grow  upon  her,  and  my  father  worried  over  it  a  good 
deal,  I  am  afraid.  "  We  shan't  have  any  more  of  them,  that's  one 
comfort !  " 

"  Respectable  men  ? "  asked  my  father,  showing  consciousness 
of  public  affairs,  although  deep  in  Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr. 
Disraeli. 

"  No !     Weddings."       . 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  know  that,  Helen."  I  saw  that  my 
father  was  a  little  froisse  by  this  classification  of  Gracey — for 
it  amounted  to  that — both  by  his  tone  and  by  the  way  he  felt  for 
the  outline  of  one  of  his  cheekbones.  "  Have  you  been  at  Gracey's 
horoscope  again  ?  " 

"Dear  Gracey!"  said  Jemima  then;  as  I  thought,  offensively. 
"  I  really  quite  forgot  Gracey.  Oh  no! — we  haven't  been  horoscop- 
ing,  this  time."  And  she  made  her  speech  still  more  offensive  by 
patting  Gracey's  hand  down  on  the  tablecloth.  Gracey  was  for- 
giveness itself — she  always  was — and  not  only  left  her  hand  in 
pawn,  but  said: — "Come,  Aunt  Helen,  you  know  it  didn't  show 
at  all  yesterday  in  the  Church,  and  nobody  saw  it.  Varnish  says 
they  didn't." 

I  can't  say  that  any  one,  before  the  wedding,  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  suggest  that  Gracey  should  abdicate  as  bridesmaid  in  favour 
of  an  undisfigured  sample;  but  a  flavour  to  that  effect  had  got  in 
the  air,  and  had  certainly  touched  my  nostrils,  and  perhaps  my 
father's.  I  waited  for  some  expression  of  indignation  from  him, 
but  none  came,  and  then  I  saw  that  something  in  the  newspaper 
had  engrossed  him,  and  that  he  had  probably  not  caught  Gracey's 
last  words,  which  were  the  key  to  the  inner  meaning  of  the  pre- 
vious conversation.  I  myself  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  off  to  the 
Academy,  and  only  noticed  further  that  my  father,  when  applied 
to  for  "some  of"  The  Times,  said: — "Yes — presently!  You 
shall  have  it  all  directly."  Which  might  quite  well  have  meant 
nothing  unusual,  for  our  family  tradition  was  that  its  head  was 
not  to  surrender  The  Times  one  moment  sooner  than  he  chose, 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  359 

however  clamorous  the  demands  for  it  might  become.  It  was  a  law 
of  Medes  and  Persians.  I  did,  however,  suspect  something  when  he 
refused  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  and  withdrew  into  his  own  room 
somewhat  abruptly. 

I  had  all  but  started  when  I  heard  him  speak  to  my  stepmother 
from  his  library,  and  her  reply : — "  Yes — I'll  come  in  a  minute  or 
two."  Then  that  he  came  to  the  door  to  say : — "  No — come  now ! 
I  have  something  to  tell  you."  His  voice  meant  that  the  something 
was  a  bad  something,  and  the  broken  interchange  of  speech  that 
followed  on  the  closing  of  the  door,  that  it  was  worse.  I  guessed 
that  it  was  Indian  news. 

Gracey  came  halfway  down  the  stairs  from  her  bedroom — she 
had  gone  up  to  get  ready  to  go  out — and  said: — "Is  anything 
wrong?  I  thought  I  heard  them  talking."  For  voices  would 
penetrate  floors  in  some  parts  of  the  house. 

I  answered,  uneasily  and  huskily  enough,  that  some  news  had 
come.  She  became  white,  and  looked  very  hard  at  me.  "  I  know," 
said  she.  "  It's  Monty — hush !  "  She  waited,  listening  to  the 
voices  in  the  library.  "  I  wish  they  would  come  out  and  say  at 
once,  instead  of  talking." 

The  voices  stopped,  and  my  stepmother  came  out,  cautiously. 
"Have  you  seen  your  sister?  .  .  .  Oh,  here  she  is!  ...  Both 
of  you  come  in  to  your  father.  .  .  .  Yes — he  has  found  some  news." 
She  did  not  go  back,  but  waited.  Nor  did  I  at  once  follow  Gracey, 
who  went  in,  without  hesitation.  She  did  not  cry  out  when  her 
father  said  to  her — as  she  told  me  later;  I  could  not  hear  what 
he  said : — "  I  have  some  news  from  India,  darling — bad  news !  " 
She  said:— "Yes— go  on!" 

Then  I  too  followed,  in  time  to  catch  his  words : — "  He  has  been 
rery  badly  wounded,  at  Cawnpore." 

I  did  not  see  what  Gracey  saw  at  once,  that  this  was  only  prepar- 
ation foi  the  truth.  And  indeed  I  still  hoped  she  might  be  mis- 
taken, when  she  turned  to  me  and  said : — "  Oh,  Poor  Jackey ! 
What  will  you  do?  Monty  is  dead!  "  My  father  said  nothing. 

How  many  years  older  did  I  grow  in  the  minutes  that  followed, 
I  do  not  know.  But  I  know  that  I  mustered  manhood,  then  and 
there,  to  break  down  without  disguise,  and  cry  like  a  child.  It  was 
a  step  on  towards  maturity. 

Looking  back  now,  I  still  see  my  cubhood  in  this,  that  I  scarcely 
thought  of  Gracey.  I  had,  as  it  were,  her  sanction  for  a  selfish 
surrender  to  my  own  grief;  and  I  certainly  took  advantage  of  it. 
All  my  memories  of  my  dear  schoolboy  friend — and  one  knows 
how  deav  school-friendship  can  be — came  rushing  through  my  mind 


360  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  knocking  at  my  heart.  Not  only  memories  of  himself,  but  of 
all  things  he  had  part  in.  I  could  see  again  that  repellent  wash- 
house  at  the  school,  and  that  incorrigible  bully  Nevinson,  beaten  to 
pulp  and  mad  with  entire  defeat,  trying  to  wash  away  the  stains 
of  the  combat.  I  could  smell  the  yellow  soap  and  circular  towels, 
and  hear  the  bleating  of  the  unhappy  washer's  wrath.  Then  next 
day  Cooky's  voice,  speaking  to  me  for  the  first  time,  while  his 
strong  hand  ruffles  my  head,  as  an  expression  of  pure  goodwill: — 
"  Ain't  you  the  little  beggar  he  was  sitting  on  ?  I  like  you.  I  think 
I  shall  call  you  Buttons."  Then  how  I  boasted  of  Cooky  to  Gracey, 
and  she  said : — "  You  must  bring  him  home  and  show  him  to  us." 
And  how  I  resented  the  presumption  that  so  great  a  creature  could 
be  brought  home  at  pleasure.  But  he  came,  after  asking  was  I 
sure  my  Governor  would  "stand  it";  which  my  Governor  did,  and 
christened  him  Nebuchadnezzar. 

And  now  the  end  of  it  all  had  come.  I  knew  it  by  my  father's 
silence  when  Gracey  said: — "Monty  is  dead."  And  for  the  mo- 
ment I  was  stunned  into  knowing  no  grief  but  my  own.  I  was 
deceived  too  by  her  apparent  calm,  for  there  was  no  change  in  her 
beyond  her  extreme  pallor.  My  father  was  not  taken  in,  but  I  was. 
Or  perhaps  I  should  say  that  I  found  it  easier  to  be  taken  in,  and 
welcomed  the  deception.  He,  I  have  no  doubt,  accepting  her  self- 
command  as  a  wish  that  none — not  even  he — should  pry  too  closely 
into  her  heart,  had  to  be  content  with  silence.  I  think  both  of  them 
found  a  kind  of  relief  in  ascribing  prior  rights  of  grief  to  me,  as 
having  known  its  object  three  months  longer.  Even  so  a  cente- 
narinn  still  feels  the  seniority,  that  was  his  in  youth,  over  a 
brother  of  ninety-nine. 

.Memory  loses  a  few  moments  and  then  is  aware  that  my  father 
has  left  the  room  and  is  speaking  with  my  stepmother  in  the  pas- 
sage. Gracey  has  gone  upstairs,  to  her  room  probably.  What  is 
that  Jemima  is  saying  of  her,  outside^ 

'*  My  dear — you  will  see  it  will  be  exactly  as  I  told  you.  She 
is  taking  it  most  sensibly.  But  of  course,  apart  from  anything 
of  that  .  .  .  that  sort,  it  is  the  loss  of  a  friend."  Then  their 
voices  fall,  and  I  hear  nothing  but  that  he  will  leave  me  alone  for 
a  bit,  and  then  come  back  and  tell  me  about  it.  And  then  I  have 
an  impression,  probably  a  false  one,  that  there  are  symptoms  in 
Jemima  of  that  serene  optimism,  resignation  to  the  troubles  of 
another.  A  hazy  fancy  about  a  person  on  the  other  side  of  a  nearly 
closed  door  is  not  worth  much. 

I  knew  all  about  it  before  my  father  came  back  to  tell  me,  for  I 
f?ot  at  The  Times.  Cooky  had  volunteered  to  go  with  two  or  three 


361 

others  on  a  hazardous  mission  to  bring  in  the  wife  of  an  officer 
then  in  hospital  in  Cawnpore,  who  was  said  to  be  in  concealment 
with  her  young  child,  at  some  outlying  compound  in  a  district 
still  in  the  hands  of  the  insurgents.  I  repeat  the  story  just  as  I 
recollect  it;  but,  it  may  be,  inaccurately  in  some  points.  The  lady 
and  child  were  brought  back  safely  by  the  officer  in  charge,  but  one 
officer  and  two  privates  of  his  regiment,  and  three  Sikhs,  were 
killed  or  taken  prisoners  in  covering  their  retreat  from  a  party 
of  pursuers.  The  success  of  the  rescue  was  due,  said  the  survivors, 
to  the  intrepid  daring  of  the  covering  party,  the  leadership  of 
which  had  fallen  to  a  young  officer,  a  subaltern  who  had  joined 
recently,  of  whom  the  only  survivor  said,  that  had  it  not  been  for 
him.  not  one  of  the  party  would  have  returned  to  Cawnpore.  That 
young  officer's  name  was  Ensign  Montague  Moss,  of  the  Ninth 
Lancers. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  AM  ashamed  to  have  to  write  it,  but  do  so  with  a  sense  of 
confession  and  absolution,  which  is  not  without  its  compensation. 
I  never  really  cared  one  straw  for  the  employment  I  had  embarked 
upon.  My  motive  for  adopting  the  Fine  Arts  as  a  profession  was, 
so  far  as  I  can  analyze  it,  entirely  one  of  personal  vanity. 

No  one  suspected  this  at  the  time — least  of  all  myself.  Indeed 
there  was  a  kind  of  substratum  of  modesty  in  my  delusion  which 
misled  me.  The  thought  that  such  an  insignificant  unit  as  myself 
should  be  endowed  with  the  divine  fire  that  had  burned  in  the 
souls  of  the  great  painters  of  past  ages  was  a  consolation  for  that 
insignificance  which  I  could  scarcely  be  expected  not  to  lay  to 
heart.  It  was  not  because  I  was  self-satisfied,  but  because  I  was 
self -dissatisfied,  that  I  jumped  at  the  decision  of  Jacox — in  which 
the  simplicity  of  my  soul  never  detected  the  sneer — that  I  was 
manifestly  a  dab  at  that  sort  of  thing.  That  was  the  spark  that 
kindled  my  egotism,  which  really  was  at  the  time  neither  greater 
nor  less  than  that  of  any  other  crude  boy  of  fair  ability. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  fanned  the  flame,  so  far  as  I  can  guess,  from 
sheer  unqualified  love  of  gushing.  She  was,  you  see,  all  soul! 
She  intoxicated  me  with  the  names  of  great  Italian  Artists  of  by- 
gone time,  the  mere  repetition  of  which  is  enough  to  make  the 
divine  fire  aforesaid  glow  in  any  bosom  that  is  respectably  sym- 
pathetic. The  resonance  of  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo  had  much 
to  answer  for  with  me,  long  before  I  knew  enough  of  either  to 
discriminate  between  their  respective  works. 

But  of  all  the  fatal  influences  that  worked  for  my  destruction,  I 
do  believe  none  was  worse  than  the  letter  of  that  lying  married 
niece  of  old  Gromp,  who  had  not  a  particle  of  justification  for  her 
statement  that  he  had  said  anything  whatever  about  me  and  my 
drawings.  I  can  even  believe  that  my  Evil  Genius  killed  Gromp, 
to  prevent  his  telling  me  unpalatable  truths;  or  would  have  done 
so  if  the  Nature  of  Things  had  permitted  of  his  own  existence. 

For  my  father,  much  at  a  loss  about  me  and  my  vocation  in  life, 
always  had  that  unfortunate  piece  of  false  information  to  fall  back 
upon.  Had  not  a  real  live  Royal  Academician,  applauded  my 

362 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  363 

work?  He  clung  to  this  as  self -justification.  My  conscience  once 
prompted  me  to  hint  that  Gromp  had  seen  too  little  of  my  work 
to  form  a  judgment.  "  The  less  the  better!  "  said  my  father.  "  It 
shows  how  strong  his  impression  was.  Perhaps  if  he  had  seen  a 
few  more  portfolios  full,  he  would  have  said  you  were  Michel- 
angelo !  "  I  cannot  blame  myself  for  having  made  no  further 
protest,  to  correct  a  mistake  which  seemed  to  me  in  my  own  in- 
terest. I  was  nevertheless  convinced  that  that  married  niece  was 
a  liar. 

However,  there  I  was — an  Art  Student!  It  was  a  safe  anchor- 
age, this  Art  Studentship,  involving  me  only  in  the  practice  of  an 
easy  dilettantism,  intersected  by  amusement.  I  managed  some- 
how to  steer  clear  of  the  slime  which  hung,  metaphorically,  about 
the  garments  of  many  of  my  fellow-students.  But  then  I  had  an 
advantage  over  them.  I  had  to  look  my  father  in  the  face  when  I 
returned  home  after  work.  What  sort  of  fathers,  I  wonder,  had 
they  to  keep  them  in  check?  The  paternal  influence,  like  that  of 
Uncle  Remus's  mud-turtle  among  the  animals  and  beastisses,  was 
powerfully  lacking,  so  far  as  I  saw.  And  besides,  they  may  not 
have  had  such  a  sister  as  mine,  or  any  sister  at  all.  That  would 
make  an  enormous  difference. 

I  find  myself  thinking  of  my  twentieth  year,  and  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish any  great  difference  from  myself  of  two  years  before. 
The  loss  of  my  old  school-friend  had  made  a  difference — a  great 
difference — at  home;  but,  at  the  Academy! — what  shall  I  say? 
Suppose  I  put  it  that  my  education  continued,  with  the  proviso 
that  no  one  ever  taught  me  anything.  As  far  as  the  time  it  lasted 
went,  it  certainly  was  a  good  education — a  liberal  education,  in 
one  way.  If  I  had  only  been  taught  something! — that  was  all 
that  was  wanted.  The  only  instruction  I  received  was  negative. 
The  visitor  or  Curator  would  glance  over  my  shoulder  en  passant 
and  say,  "  You'll  never  do  anything  that  way !  "  and  would  pass  on 
to  his  appointed  task  of  neglecting  some  one  else.  What  he  said 
was  true  beyond  a  doubt.  But  there  are  so  many  ways  of  paint- 
ing a  head  wrong.  If  it  had  been  humanly  possible  to  try  them  all, 
no  doubt  I  should  have  lighted  on  the  right  way  at  last.  Even 
so  the  performer  in  the  game  called  "  Magic  Music  "  is  made  to 
solve  his  problem  in  the  end.  Yet  even  he  has  an  advantage  which 
I  had  not.  Nobody  played  loud,  triumphantly,  when  I  came  within 
range  of  sound  drawing  or  sane  colour.  The  visitor  might  have 
said  to  me.  for  instance,  "  That  nose  is  the  right  length,"  or,  "  red 
enough,"  as  might  be,  and  I  should  have  left  it  alone,  and  gone 
on  to  some  other  feature. 


364  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

There  was  one  fatuity  that  I  engaged  in  at  this  time  which, 
though  it  did  not  make  an  Artist  of  me — as  why  should  it? — 
made  a  fool  of  me.  Or  shall  I  rather  say — made  me  make  a  fool 
of  myself?  Whichever  way  I  put  it,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing; 
it  certainly  made  me,  for  awhile,  a  greater  fool  than  it  found  me. 
However,  I  may  have  been  the  wiser  for  it  after.  Who 
can  say? 

The  fatuity  in  question  was  miscalled  copying  Old  Masters  at 
the  National  Gallery.  It  was  at  the  National  Gallery — all  right 
so  far,  and  the  picture  I  set  about  to  reproduce  was  old — four 
hundred  years  old,  I  believe — and  the  work  of  a  Master.  Of  how 
consummate  and  stupendous  a  Master  you  will  know  when  I 
tell  you  it  was  the  Doge  Loredano.  No  less!  But  the  erroneous 
part  of  the  description  is  in  the  word  "  copying."  I  take  it  that 
my  delusion  that  I  could  "  copy  "  the  miraculous  picture  was  dis- 
tinct evidence  that  I  literally  could  not  see  it — that  I  was  in  fact 
as  blind  as  a  bac!  However,  I  prevented  some  one  else  "copying" 
it  for  three  months — that  is  some  consolation ! 

Of  course  I  did  not  interfere  with  the  young  lady  who  was  at 
it  already.  I  took  a  place  that  was  just  vacated  by  her  sister,  who 
had  actually  been  copying  the  Doge  in  pastels!  I  did  not  see  the 
work,  but  I  saw  the  dowry  of  pulverized  washerwoman's  blue  and 
chrome  yellow  she  had  bestowed  on  some  yards  of  floor  round 
about,  and  wondered  which  part  of  the  picture  had  been  painted 
with  it. 

The  sister  on  the  contrary  appeared  to  practise  a  great  modera- 
tion in  materials.  She  only  had  a  chair,  and  worked  on  a  block 
in  a  sketch-book.  She  was  a  water-colourist,  with  too  little  water 
and  a  very  small  box  of  half-pans  of  colour  which  were  always  in 
extremes;  either  parched  and  curling  up;  or  glutinous,  like  her 
gamboge,  which  was  running  over  into  her  ultramarine,  and  was 
presumably  the  cause  of  my  scraping  acquaintance  with  her. 

It  was  not  on  the  first  day  of  my  affront  to  John  Bellini,  as  I 
remember  that  the  sister's  polychromatic  residuum  had  vanished 
before  some  washerperson  in  the  employ  of  the  State.  I  remember 
this  because  the  sister,  coming  back  like  a  ghost  from  another 
world,  and  said  audibly: — u  Oh,  I  see  they've  cleaned  up  after  me." 
A  speech  which,  very  mysteriously,  remained  in  my  head,  the  rest  of 
the  day,  being  supplied  also  with  a  figure  to  speak  it,  whose  grace 
remains  vivid  still  in  my  imagination,  though  I  have  no  doubt 
time  has  exaggerated  it,  as  well  as  the  beauty  of  the  dark  eyes 
that  glanced  slightly  at  me  as  their  owner  spoke,  under  cover  of 
the  pretext  supplied  by  the  reinstated  floor-boards.  I  don't  sup- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  365 

pose  that  those  fine  eyes  squinted,  nor  may  they  have  intended  to 
look  scornful,  as  I  was  such  an  utter  stranger,  and  contempt 
would  have  been  so  unprovoked.  But  they  did  something  that 
must  have  been  squinting,  as  they  gave  the  impression  that  they 
thought  the  tip  of  her  nose  better  worth  looking  at  than  me.  And 
the  fine  eyelids  seemed  to  imply,  by  only  rising  just  high  enough, 
that  the  eyes  were  not  on  duty,  but  could  be,  on  occasion  shown. 
This  young  man  was  not  an  occasion,  and  if  his  image  was  blurred 
by  fine  long  eyelashes,  what  matter?  The  droop  of  rippled  hair 
over  those  eyes  was  not  a  fringe — fringes  proper  came  later — 
but  a  compact  between  two  friends  a  comb  had  parted,  to  hide 
as  much  brow  as  the  neighbourhood  supplied.  I  doubt  whether 
Adeline — that  was  her  name,  heard  afterwards— had  any  forehead 
to  boast  of,  and  this  arrangement  not  only  slurred  over  the  de- 
ficiency,  but  claimed  damages  for  any  libellous  doubt  thrown  on 
the  subject. 

I  was  not  an  impudent  young  man  enough  to  get  more  than  a 
furtive  glance  at  this  beauty,  but  what  I  got  seems  to  have  re- 
mained with  me.  In  fact,  after  fifty  years  I  do  not  find  that  her 
image  has  paled  in  the  least,  though  its  import — for  which  I  can 
find  no  other  name — has  collapsed  altogether.  I  do  not  condemn 
her  now  for  the  effect  she  produced  on  me.  It  was  only  an  uncon* 
sidered  fraction  of  the  effect  she  wished  to  produce  on  the  whole 
of  male  mankind,  young  and  old,  married  and  single.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  a  large  proportion  of  its  members  came  to  think,  in  the 
end,  that  she  never  should  have  looked  at  it  so,  had  she  meant  it 
should  not  love  her.  I  really  believe  I  did,  in  the  end.  But  is  it 
not  hard  on  a  young  woman  who  has  a  fine  throat,  and  bones — • 
enough  and  no  more — in  her  face,  that  she  may  not  use  a  hair- 
wash,  and  droop  her  eyelids  slightly,  and  leave  her  mouth  ajar, 
because  her  doing  so  will  stir  the  blood  of  some  fool? 

I  need  not  say  that,  even  as  the  vaccinated  subject  feels  no  more 
than  a  pin-prick  until  the  virus  makes  up  its  mind  to  take,  or 
otherwise,  so  I  carried  home  with  me — or  rather  was  accompanied 
by — the  eyes,  the  hair,  the  throat,  the  adequate  cheek  bone,  and 
their  mode  of  co-existence  in  the  same  image,  without  attaching 
any  weight  to  the  momentary  effect  on  me  of  my  first  introduction 
to  them.  But  the  vaccine  must  have  been  at  work  by  the  time  I 
got  a  talk  with  Qracey  in  the  evening,  because  I  was  beginning  to 
be  conscious  of  two  opposing  forces;  one,  an  indisposition  to 
answer  questions  about  my  neighbours  at  work  at  the  National 
Gallery,  the  other,  a  qualified  impatience  with  my  family  for  not 
asking  them.  I  wanted  a  tangible  occasion  for  denying  that  the 


366  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

owner  of  the  eyes  and  hair  that  produced  an  impression  on  me, 
without  myself  inaugurating  conversation  about  her. 

I  thought  Gracey  showed  penetration  when  she  asked  me,  as 
soon  as  we  were  alone  together,  what  the  lady  was  like  who  was 
copying  the  same  picture.  I  had  only  mentioned  the  fact  that 
such  a  person  existed.  "  A  party !  "  said  Gracey.  "  Of  course  she's 
a  party !  But  what  sort  of  a  party?  Is  she  an  old  party,  or  a  young 
party?  Is  she  ugly,  or  pretty,  or  stuffy,  or  what?" 

I  pretended  to  weigh  her  claims  to  good  looks.  "I  shouldn't 
call  her  stuffy,  exactly,"  said  I. 

"  Then  if  she  isn't  ugly,  she's  pretty." 

I  was  very  transparent.     "Oh  no,  she's  not  pretty,"  said  I. 

"  Then  somebody  else  is,"  said  Gracey ;  as  I  thought,  with  super- 
human insight.  "  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Well — Adeline.  At  least ;  her  sister  called  her  Adeline.  I 
didn't  above  half  see  her.  Only  her  back." 

"  Then  she's  elegant." 

"  I  don't  see  that.     Everybody  has  one." 

"  One  what  ?  " 

"  A  back." 

"  Yes — only  nobody  remembers  them  when  they're  men.  Then, 
their  backs  are  manly.  It's  when  they  are  women  they  have  elegant 
backs.  Come  now,  Jackey!  What  was  hers?  Don't  be  shy  about 
it." 

I  thought  Gracey's  power  of  getting  behind  the  curtain  of  my 
mind  was  almost  uncanny.  I  evaded  her  question,  and  got  off 
this  sub-division  of  the  subject.  "Bother  her  back!"  said  I,  dis- 
missing it.  "  I  did  get  a  squint  at  her  mug,  you  know,"  I  ad- 
mitted, my  excess  of  slang  being  really  dust  to  obscure  the  eyes 
of  Europe,  represented  by  Gracey. 

Gracey  refused  to  be  blinded.  "  Did  she  squint  back  at  you  ? " 
said  she. 

I  lost  an  outwork.  "  She  doesn't  exactly  squint,"  said  I.  "  It's 
only  a  sort  of  look  she  has." 

My  stepmother  was  within  hearing,  but  credited  with  being 
asleep.  My  father,  reading  BoswelFs  Life  of  Johnson,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fire,  had  just  said  to  her,  "  My  dear,  you're  spoil- 
ing your  night's  rest;"  and  she  was,  I  suppose,  making  mental 
notes  of  our  conversation,  for  she  repelled  the  accusation  by  saying 
with  alacrity: — "No,  I  was  listening  to  those  young  people.  Who 
is  it  has  a  sort  of  look  ? "  She  raised  her  voice  to  ask  this  ques- 
tion, without  turning  her  head  or  opening  her  eyes,  to  prove  her 
case  the  better. 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  367 

"  Only  a  young  lady  of  Jackey's,  at  the  National  Gallery.  She's 
lovely  and  interesting.  You  had  better  ask  him  about  her." 
Gracey  was  looking  malicious,  or  at  least  amused. 

"  Who  is  the  young  lady,  Jackey  ? "  said  Jemima,  melodiously, 
without  looking  round.  My  father  looked  across  the  top  of  Bos- 
well,  also  amused. 

"  It's  all  Gracey,  not  me,"  said  I,  explanatorily.  "I  don't  know 
who  she  is." 

"  Now  you're  backing  out,  Jackey,"  said  Gracey.  "  Look  here 
what  he  told  me,  Aunt  Helen.  Her  stuffy  sister  is  copying  his 
picture,  and  she's  Adeline.  And  she's  very  beautiful  and  fascinat- 
ing and  graceful.  And  he  got  a  squint  at  her  mug.  Don't  say  you 
didn't,  Jackey,  because  you  know  you  did." 

"Well — suppose  I  did!"  Both  Gracey  and  Jemima  said,  I 
think,  that  it  only  showed  what  "goings  on"  there  were  at  the 
Gallery. 

My  'father  showed  a  disposition  to  interpose  on  my  behalf.  "  I 
must  say,"  said  he,  "  that  I  think  the  '  goings  on  '  are  a  little  .  .  . 
constructive.  What  did  this  young  lady  say  to  you,  Jackey?" 

"  Never  spoke ! "  said  I,  feeling  rather  rescued.  "  Nor  me  to 
her!" 

"  Oh,  Jackey,  you  are  backing  out.  At  any  rate,  you  did  hear 
what  she  said  to  the  stuffy  sister."  This  was  Gracey,  in  an  injured 
tone. 

"  Of  course  I  did.    Only  I  didn't  say  the  sister  was  stuffy." 

"  Oh— she's  a  beauty  too !  .  .  .  Well— what  is  she  then  ?"  Be- 
cause my  expression  had  negatived  this. 

"Oh — her!  Well,  I  should  call  her  comme  il  faut.  At  least, 
the  female  of  comme  il  faut."  I  reflected  on  the  intricacies  of  the 
French  tongue,  and  added: — "Comme  elle  faute — I  suppose!" 

"  The  question  before  the  House,"  said  my  father,  temperately, 
"I  take  to  be — what  did  Adeline,  the  beauty,  say  to  her  comme  elle 
faute  sister?"  He  did  not  quarrel  with  my  new  departure  in 
French — merely  paused  on  it  a  moment,  and  passed  it. 

"  She  only  looked  at  where  she'd  been  sitting " 

"  Where  you  were,  you  know!  "  said  Gracey. 

"  Where  I  was  at  work.  And  said  they  had  swept  up  after 
her.  Because  she  had  left  a  lot  of  coloured  chalk  behind.  Where 
she'd  been  sitting,  you  know !  " 

"  Like  a  hen,"  said  my  father.  "  Only  hens  I  believe  have  no 
use  for  coloured  chalks." 

"Was  it  then  you  got  a  peep  at  the  young  lady's  face?"  said 
Jemima,  not  to  encourage  my  father's  choice  of  a  simile.  For,  as 


368  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  always  said,  Mrs.  Pascoe's  taste  was  absolutely 
perfect.  She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  began  a  yawn,  out  of 
the  end  of  which  a  resolution  to  go  to  bed  took  form  in  words. 
And  the  World,  which  didn't  seem  to  think  the  young  lady  need 
be  wound  up  like  a  Company,  said  oh  yes! — it  was  actually  five 
minutes  to  eleven ! 

I  don't  think  the  young  lady  named  Adeline,  nor  her  back — 
which  I  presume  shared  her  name,  somehow — interfered  in  my 
dreams  that  night;  but  I  am  sure  she  stood  between  me  and  a 
measurable  amount  of  sleep.  It  ought  to  have  been  a  large  amount 
to  judge  by  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  waking  dreams  that 
took  their  place.  These  included  rescues,  by  the  dreamer,  of  the 
said  Adeline  from  mysterious  and  vague  dangers,  not  common  in 
civilized  Society;  the  running  up  of  scores  against  the  said  Adeline, 
to  be  paid  in  devotion  to  the  dreamer,  during  a  long  residence  in 
palatial  domiciles  best  described  as  Chateaux;  the  unhappy  termi- 
nation of  an  almost  truculent  reciprocal  passion  by  the  suicide 
of  the  dreamer  and  the  said  Adeline,  the  provocation  to  which 
was  very  dimly  outlined,  if  indeed  it  could  be  said  to  have  been 
indicated  at  all.  I  think  this  last  eruption,  or  rash,  of  my  youth- 
ful imagination  was  the  most  gratifying  of  the  lot.  As  I  write 
this  I  do  not  feel  ashamed  of  having  been  such  a  young  jackass 
on  so  small  a  provocation,  because  I  believe  nine  men  out  of  ten 
would  make  some  similar  confession  if  they  were  writing  as  I  am, 
without  any  anticipation  of  a  reader.  Autobiography  is  generally 
written  with  judicious  reserves,  whereas  I  write  for  my  Self  alone 
— for  his  and  my  amusement.  Not  that  that  word  precisely  de- 
scribes my  motives ! 

The  eruption — call  it  "first  love,"  if  you  choose — developed 
favourably  during  the  five  days  that  had  to  elapse  before  I  could 
renew  my  studied  insult  to  Doge  Loredano.  The  morning  of  the 
fifth  day  found  me  confronting  this  effort  and  comparing  it  with 
the  original;  not  entirely  without  self-congratulation,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.  I  recognized  in  it  a  good  preparation.  I  perceived  that 
when  I  came  to  the  glazing  I  should  get  the  Quality.  Also  the 
Expression. 

I  was  confirmed  in  this  forecast  by  my  Academy  friend,  'Opkins. 
He  mentioned  a  third  essential,  the  Feelin'.  But  that  always  came, 
with  the  Work.  What  you  wanted  to  keep  your  heye  upon  in  the 
early  stages  of  a  copy  was  the  getting  of  it  in  the  right  place 
on  the  canvas.  Once  do  that,  the  rest  would  follow.  If  you  made 
a  good  'it  with  your  first  shy  at  this  important  object,  you  might 
feel  'appy  about  the  Expression  and  the  Feelin'.  The  great  thing 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  369 

was  to  have  your  canvas  too  big.  And  his  advice  was,  the  minute 
you  had  got  your  work  marsed  in  ackerate,  redooce  it.  Then,  when 
it  was  reg'lar  dry,  and  no  mistake,  you  took  it  up  and  worked  in  the 
Expression.  The  Feelin'  would  come  of  itself.  There  was  a 
School  which  preached  that  the  Renderin'  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  the  Feelin',  but  he  didn't  'old  with  it.  Depend  upon  it,  the 
Feelin'  was  an  idear,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Treatment. 
Al  tor  the  Quality,  you  couldn't  expect  that.  These  old  beggars 
all  had  Time  on  their  side,  and  we  poor  Moderns  were  helpless  in 
the  hands  of  Contemporaneousness. 

I  listened  in  silence  to  this  young  man's  illuminations,  with  a 
furtive  eye  on  the  door  through  which  I  expected  to  see  approach 
the  two  sisters,  whom  I  thought  I  had  identified,  by  their  last 
week's  signatures  in  the  attendance  book,  as  M.  and  A.  Roper. 
I  was  a  little  nettled  by  the  name,  which  seemed  to  me  not  in 
harmony  with  one  of  its  bearers.  But  it  could  not  be  helped,  and 
might  have  been  worse.  Just  consider — it  might  have  been 
Simpkins!  There  was  no  other  obvious  entry  of  sisters  in  the 
book,  except  a  brace  of  Trotts,  from  whom  my  soul  recoiled.  I  had 
to  school  it  to  accept  Roper. 

'Opkins  was  waiting  for  a  canvas,  and  remained  by  me  to  talk. 
It  was  surprising  what  a  number  of  devotees  of  ancient  Art  were 
waiting  for  materials.  The  gentleman  who  was  sitting  with  his 
back  to  his  own  copy  of  Gevartius,  talking  to  the  young  lady  who 
was  doing  the  Rubens,  was  not  idling.  Far  from  it!  He  was  'ung 
up  for  Indian  Red.  He  had  rashly  begun  Gevartius  with  some 
Indian  Red  of  a  rare  and  peculiar  tint;  and,  when  he  had  run 
through  his  toob,  he  went  for  more  and  found  there  was  no  more 
to  be  had,  without  you  send  to  some  impossible  place — was  it 
Erzeroum  or  Trebizond?  and  he  would  lose  more  time  in  the  end 
by  'urrying  than  by  waiting  with  patience.  A  spacious  matron  who 
kept  her  bonnet  on  to  work  was  in  real  distress  for  Genuine  Amber 
Varnish,  without  which  her  Francia  was  'reg'lar  at  a  standstill. 
So  she  conversed  with  a  man  with  a  skull-cap,  whom  'Opkins 
thought  a  'umbug.  He  never  said  why,  and  I  find  myself  now, 
fifty  years  later,  curious  to  know  why,  without  the  smallest  chance 
of  ever  finding  out.  Was  he  a  humbug,  and  why? 

'Opkins's  canvas  came,  and  he  examined  it  narrowly.  He  tight- 
ened the  wedges  with  caution  and  subtlety,  and  then  bore  it  away 
to  the  place  beside  the  Indian  Red  man,  who  conversed  loudly,  in- 
cessantly, with  the  young  lady  who  was  at  work  on  Rubens.  I 
could  just  see  him.  through  the  door  between  the  rooms,  engaged 
in  the  getting  of  Gevartius  on  the  right  place  in  the  canvas;  mak- 


370  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

ing  a  good  hit,  I  trust,  with  the  first  shy.  I  had  not  got  rid  of  him 
quite,  though,  for  he  came  back  a  minute  later  for  a  piece  of  char- 
coal that  would  mark.  "  I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  mine  is 
wilier  charcoal  at  all.  Some  cheap  substitoot."  He  dwelt  upon 
its  imperfections,  one  of  which  was  the  presence  of  minute  foreign 
bodies,  as  'ard  as  haggit. 

I  trace  the  sensitive  condition  in  which  I  was,  in  the  relief  I 
felt  that  his  accent  was  out  of  hearing  when  the  two  sisters  made 
their  appearance,  in  charge  of — or  abetted  by — a  young  woman  who 
scorned  Italian  and  Flemish  Art,  whom  they  addressed  as  Atkin- 
son. I  discerned  in  this  that  they  belonged  to  the  Better  Sort. 
Therefore,  possibly  Roper;  certainly  not  Trott! 

I  got  so  ostentatiously  out  of  the  way  of  the  comme  ellc  faute 
sister — made  such  acres  of  room  for  her — in  my  desire  to  show 
that  I  was  ready  to  oblige;  and  she,  for  her  part,  was  so  almost 
hysterically  anxious  that  I  should  not  make  any  concession  at  all, 
that  even  the  spacious  matron  might  have  found  room  between  us 
to  concoct  a  new  insult  to  John  Bellini,  had  she  been  minded  to  do 
so.  A  period  followed  of  indication,  by  jerks,  of  overwrought  un- 
willingness to  interpose  on  the  slightest  impulse  either  showed  to 
trespass  on  the  neutral  territory.  It  lasted  till  it  was  time  to  go 
out  to  lunch. 

I  tried,  some  fifty  years  later,  to  discover  the  Court  where  we 
used  to  feed  in  those  days,  and  could  not  identify  it.  We  students 
went  there,  I  believe,  under  an  impression  that  it  was  rather 
like  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  to  do  so.  There  could  have  been 
no  other  temptation.  The  young  woman  who  attended  on  us  did 
not  deserve  'Opkins'  eulogy;  that  is,  if  I  rightly  understand  the 
word  "  scrumptious  "  to  be  a  distorted  equivalent  of  sumptuous. 
Also,  her  hair  came  down,  and  had  to  be  reinstated  in  connection 
with  her  professional  services  to  customers.  That  is  a  delicate  way 
of  hinting  at  the  thinness  of  this  dining-room's  veneer  of  Civiliza- 
tion. We  students  certainly  paid  heavily  for  our  desire  to  feel 
in  touch  with  our  ancestors.  This  Court,  however,  has  nothing 
to  do  with  my  concurrent  memories  of  the  moment.  It  crossed  my 
mind  as  I  cut  my  pencil,  and  claimed  a  word  or  two.  It  may 
do  so  again.  I  cannot  say. 

I  returned  to  find  that  the  sister's  chair,  with  her  apparatus  on  it, 
had  moved  to  the  front  of  the  Doge.  I  felt  that  I  was  face  to  face 
with  a  problem.  Gracey  said  to  me  afterwards,  on  learning  par- 
ticulars:— "Why  didn't  you  push  it  back  again?"  I  thought  it 
seemed  obvious  enough  that  this  would  have  been  presumptuous. 
Fancy  pushing  a  chair  on  which  had  sat  the  not  unworthy  sister 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  371 

of  so  much  beauty;  a  beauty  which  my  imagination  of  last  night 
had  enshrined  in  Chateaux,  of  which  I  was  somehow  the  lord  and 
master — including  of  course  the  said  beauty!  I  never  entertained 
the  idea  for  a  moment :  I  and  my  easel  shrank  into  themselves,  and 
found  them  a  tight  fit. 

I  was  considering  what  to  do  next  to  my  work — being  destined 
to  spend  many  hours  that  way  before  it  was  finished — and  was 
wondering  whether  the  time  hadn't  come  for  indicating  the  ex- 
pression, when  an  incident  occurred  which  left  me  speechless. 

'"  Oh  dear!  "  said  a  female  voice  belonging  to  a  rustle  I  had  not 
looked  round  at.  "  How  exactly  like  my  sister!  I  suppose  she 
thought  you  were  not  coming  back."  It  was  actually  the  beauty 
herself,  in  wash-leather  gloves  the  worse  for  pastels,  and  a  pinafore 
to  match,  covered  with  chrome  green  and  lemon  yellow.  I  found 
afterwards  that  she  was  "  doing "  a  Landscape  with  Cattle,  by 
Vander  Somebody. 

I  began  stammering  that  it  did  not  matter  the  least,  that  the 
one  thing  I  really  found  a  satisfaction  in  life  was  making  room 
for  other  people  in  Public  Galleries,  and  so  forth,  when  I  was  sud- 
denly plunged  in  the  deepest  confusion  by  the  Beauty  saying  un- 
concernedly, "Oh  nonsense!  She  mustn't  jam  herself  up  against 
you  like  that.  Perfectly  absurd!  "  and  moving  the  intrusive  chair 
to  its  original  position.  Having  done  which,  she  absolutely  floated 
away,  graceful  figure  and  all,  without  bestowing  a  fraction  of  a 
look  on  me!  Evidently,  her  dreams,  sleeping  or  waking,  had  been 
nowhere  near  those  Chateaux. 

I  was  puzzled,  and  hurt,  at  her  taking  such  an  impersonal  view 
of  me;  though  well  aware  that  had  she  done  otherwise,  I  should 
have  sunk  into  the  ground  from  sheer  bashfulness.  I  felt  that  it 
was  rather  a  deliverance  not  to  have  to  speak  to  so  glorious  a 
creature.  I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  not  speak  to  the  other  sister, 
who  appeared  a  few  minutes  later;  interviewing  the  Cattle  by  the 
way,  and  encouraging  their  copyist.  I  could  hear  the  critical 
remark  that  there  was  a  "  beautiful  tranquillity  "  somewhere.  Also 
some  undertones,  with  a  laugh.  They  related  to  me.  Then  my 
neighbour  returned.  "  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  she.  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  push  you  out.  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  come  back. 
Sometimes  young  men  go  away  and  don't." 

I  didn't  approve  of  her  patronizing  tone,  and  looked  dignified. 
"  I'm  not  a  young  man,"  said  I.  "  I  mean  I  am  not  that  sort  of 
young  man." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  sister.  "  You  are  studious,  and  have  aspira- 
tions and  things.  Dear  me! — how  interesting  that  is!"  She 


372  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

took  a  new  sable  brush  out  of  a  tidy  parcel  and  rinsed  it  in  water; 
then  put  the  end  between  her  lips  to  make  a  nice  point,  at  the  same 
time  looking  critically  at  me.  "  Do  you  read  books? "  said  she. 

"  Some  sorts,"  I  replied.    "  Not  all.". 

"  Young  men  sometimes  read  none,"  said  she.  "  My  brother 
Shafto  never  looks  at  a  book,  on  principle.  What  are  you  reading 
now  ? " 

"Dante,"  said  I,  compendiously.  I  was  inclined  to  be  short 
with  her,  for  I  did  not  altogether  approve  of  a  certain  benignity 
of  manner,  akin  to  condescension. 

"  Dear  me!  "  said  she,  speaking  as  if  the  point  was  not  important 
enough  for  incredulity.  u  Dante  himself  ?  Or  a  translation  ?  " 

I  answered  a  little  stiffly,  not  without  pride: — "  Dante  in  Italian. 
My  sister  and  I  read  the  Inferno  in  the  evening."  This  was  the 
case,  and  I  felt  that  it  gave  me  an  advantage,  and  would  war- 
rant superiority.  I  proceeded  on  well  approved  lecturer's  lines:— 
"  Dante's  poetry  is  often  very  obscure.  We  find  Gary  useful,  but 
of  course  refer  to  him  as  little  as  possible." 

A  moment  later  I  was  sorry.  For  who  should  come  our  way 
but  the  Beauty  herself,  all  her  powers  of  fascination  at  their  dead- 
liest. She  wanted  "  the  knife."  It  seemed  they  had  only  one,  and 
shared  it.  Now  I  had  two.  To  save  the  moist-water-colour  sister 
an  excursion  into  an  obscure  pocket,  I  offered  the  more  lady- 
like of  my  two  penknives,  not  without  tremulousness,  to  the 
Beauty.  She  merely  took  it,  saying : — "  You're  very  good."  And  I 
thought  she  treated  my  offer  of  it  much  too  cavalierly.  I  did  not 
certainly  expect  a  tempest  of  gratitude.  But — to  be  told  I  was 
very  good! 

I  think  it  occurred  to  her  sister  that  I  deserved  to  be  stroked. 
For  she  said:— "This  young  gentleman  is  a  student  of  Dante." 
The  Beauty  only  said,  "  No  really !  "  and  went  away,  carrying  off 
my  knife.  I  found  myself  wondering  whether  she  was  heartless. 
After  all  those  Chateaux!  Was  it  possible  that  such  loveliness 
should  enshrine — I  could  not  exactly  say  what ?  "A  callous  dis- 
position "  seemed  to  overstate  the  case.  May  not  her  obvious 
indifference  to  my  Dantophilesque  pretensions  have  been  due  to  her 
clear  insight  into  their  groundlessness?  It  did  credit  to  her 
understanding.  Her  moist-water-colour  sister  had,  however,  over- 
drawn my  own  claim  to  profundity.  I  felt  bound  in  honour  to 
remove  this  misapprehension,  in  the  interests  of  Truth. 

"  We  haven't  done  any  Dante  to  speak  of,  you  know,  me  and  my 
sister,"  said  I.  "  We've  not  got  to  the  end  of  Canto  II,  after  all." 
I  believe  I  blushed  over  this  admission. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  373 

The  young  lady  laughed,  and  said : — "  What  a  good  truthful 
young  man  we  are !  "  Then,  as  I  suppose  she  saw  that  I  was 
nettled,  she  went  on  to  soothe  me.  Was  my  sister  older  or  younger 
than  I?  Was  she  very  fond  of  reading?  Where  did  I  live?  Was 
Chelsea  a  nice  place  to  live  in  ?  Wasn't  it  rather  out  of  the  way, 
across  all  those  fields  and  gardens?  And  so  on.  I  began  to  feel 
that  I  was  getting  quite  intimate  with  this  sister.  Only — it  was 
the  wrong  one! 

How  very  awkward  it  would  be,  if  any  misapprehension  were  to 
occur  about  who  was  to  be  the  destined  mistress  of  those  Chateaux! 
To  be  sure  this  moist-water-colour  one  might  be  utilized  as  a 
stepping-stone  to  an  ascertained  position  of  acquaintanceship, 
which  might  be  made  a  base  of  operations.  But  would  that  be 
strictly  honourable  ?  I  firmly  believe  that  the  moment  this  thought 
crossed  my  mind,  I  became  colder  in  my  demeanour  towards  my 
neighbour.  I  shrank  from  entangling  her  young  affections,  know- 
ing as  I  did  that  her  case  would  be  a  hopeless  one.  She  must 
have  thought  me  a  very  odd  young  man. 

And  I  should  now  think  that  I  must  have  been  a  very  vain  one. 
But  I  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  might  have  been  if  the  thoughts 
I  have  indicated  had  really  entered  my  mind.  They  never  did. 
Call  them  rather  specifications  of  the  thoughts  that  the  hall- 
porter  of  my  intelligence  had  distinct  instructions  to  say  "  Not 
at  home ! "  to !  I  was  forced  to  describe  them,  to  enable  him  to 
keep  them  out. 

I  perceived  that  I  had  to  steer  cautiously  between  the  Scylla  of 
tenderness  and  the  Charybdis  of  downright  rudeness.  Probably, 
in  my  anxiety  that  the  rock  should  vanish  behind  the  offing,  I 
went  much  too  near  the  whirlpool,  without  perceiving  that  my 
awkward  navigation  was  amusing  the  young  lady  extremely. 
Nevertheless  we  got  on  fairly  well  to  all  outward  seeming,  as  when 
I  saw  'Opkins  at  the  day's  end,  he  said: — "You  keep  one  hcye 
open,  Parscoe!  Don't  you  let  her  get  too  familiar.  The  atten- 
tion is  apt  to  be  took  off  by  a  good-looking  gurl.  And  the  'and 
don't  benefit,  either.  You  take  my  word ! '  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  'Opkins's  professional  earnestness  was  a  beautiful  and 
edifying  spectacle.  If  only  it  had  been,  backed  by  a  perceptible 
ability,  in  any  branch  of  Art!  But  his  perfervidum  ingmium  lived 
on  itself,  unsustained  by  any  skill  or  discrimination  of  the  soul 
it  dwelt  in,  or  any  prospect  of  development  of  either  in  the  years 
to  come. 

The  d»v  following  was  a  day  of  discomposure  for  me.     For 


374  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

the  moist-water-colour  sister  kept  on  imperceptibly  gaining  ground, 
however  much  I  might  conceal  the  fact  from  myself.  There  is 
no  sense  in  pooh-poohing  the  burr  that  creeps  up  one's  sleeve;  and 
before  I  was  aware  of  it,  she  was  metaphorically  too  far  up  mine 
for  me  to  be  able  to  reach  so  far,  arid — always  metaphorically — 
to  drag  her  down.  What  was  irritating  was  that  this  growing 
intimacy  seemed  to  place  the  real  object  of  my  admiration  on  the 
other  side  of  a  quickset  hedge,  in  the  cultivation  of  which  I  was 
compelled  to  share,  very  much  a  contre  cceur.  I  was  especially 
chagrined  towards  the  latter  end  of  this  day,  when  she  invited  me 
for  the  first  time  to  inspect  the  small  copy  she  seemed  to  be  spend- 
ing two  days  of  every  week  on,  without  getting  any  nearer  to  the 
end  of  it. 

The  block-book  she  was  using  was  too  large  for  me  to  take 
over  bodily  without  putting  down  my  own  palette  and  mahl-stick, 
so  I  dismounted  from  a  high  stool  I  was  perched  on,  to  inspect  it. 
She  accommodated  it  towards  me  on  her  lap;  and  I  went  closer, 
respectfully,  to  see. 

I  don't  know  that  I  agree  with  those  who  hold  that  "  a  food 
copy"  is  a  contradiction  in  terms,  like  a  white  negro.  But  I  do 
seriously  think  that  copyists  make  very  bad  copies,  and  that 
all  the  world — except  the  Artists  Colourmen — would  be  very  little 
the  worse  if  no  one  ever  made  another.  I  suppose  the  idea  was 
nascent  in  my  mind,  or  I  should  have  been  able  to  say  something 
more  encouraging  about  that  moist  water-colour.  As  it  was, 
I  am  afraid  what  I  did  say  amounted  to  a  judgment  that  it  might 
be  quite  perfect  if  it  was  done  all  over  again  by  somebody  else  on 
a  new  sheet  of  paper.  I  was  mixing  it  with  abstract  admiration, 
as  one  conceals  a  pill  in  jam,  when  I  was  pware  that  some  one  was 
waiting,  with  aggressive  patience,  for  an  opportunity  of  speech  in 
my  place.  It  was  the  sister — the  Beauty  herself;  and,  in  spite 
of  those  Chateaux,  her  proximity  was  so  alarming  to  me  that  I 
jumped  away  electrified,  stammered  incoherently,  and  turned  Rose 
Madder. 

"Oh — pray! — don't  stop  on  my  account,"  said  she,  with  a 
mischievous  suggestion  in  her  voice  that  her  sister  and  I  had 
been  deeply  engrossed  with  our  subject  or  each  other,  preferably 
tho  latter.  She  made  it  worse  by  adding : — "  I  won't  interrupt 
you  more  than  a  second,  and  then  you  can  go  on  exactly  where 
you  left  off."  What  she  had  to  say  to  her  sister  was  a  warning 
to  her  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  Lochkatrines,  or  some  such  name, 
were  five  o'clock,  and  they  were  not  to  be  late. 

I  must  say  that  the  coolness  of  the  moist-water-colour  sister 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  375 

took  me  aback.  I  thought  that  a  reproof  of  such  levity  would 
have  been  in  much  better  taste.  She  actually  only  said: — "You 
ought  to  be  more  careful,  Adeline.  .  .  .  Now  mind  you  give  Mr. 
— I  don't  think  I  know  your  name? — back  his  knife." 

"Pascoe,"  said  I.  And  I  think  the  Beauty  said,  "Pasport?" 
interrogatively  to  her  sister,  as  the  latter  repeated,  "No! — Pas- 
coe! "  as  if  she  were  gratified  with  the  first  syllable  but  under  a 
moral  obligation  to  the  second.  She  may  have  repeated  it. 

Anyhow,  the  Beauty  repeated  it.  "  Oh,  Pascoe,  yes !  I  see. 
I'm  so  sorry  Mr. — Pascoe," — pausing  as  if  she  had  already  had 
time  to  lose  the  name — "I  really  was  forgetting  all  about  the 
knife.  So  good  of  you !  "  Then  she  went  back  to  the  Lochkatrines, 
goading  her  sister  to  punctuality.  "  It's  half -past  three  already, 
and  I  hate  a  drive  last  thing  .  .  .  I'll  send  the  knife.  It's  in  my 
bag.  .  .  .  You  can  have  twenty  minutes  more."  With  which  she 
swept  or  floated  away. 

Having  written  down  her  remarks  in  cold  blood,  I  have  to  con- 
fess to  my  Self  that  I  do  not  now  detect  in  them  delicate  raillery, 
originality  of  expression,  subtle  humour,  acute  sense  of  moral 
obligation  ...  in  fact,  I  don't  detect  anything!  I  did, 
then. 

Gracey  found  me  out  about  the  Beauty,  and  surprised  me  by 
what  I  fancied  showed  shrewd  knowledge  of  Human  Nature. 
When  I  reached  home  that  evening,  I  found  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's 
well-known  conveyance  standing  at  our  gate,  keeping  its  heart 
warm  with  hot-water  bottles,  and  making  a  parade  of  its  indiffer- 
ence to  the  sufferings  of  its  Agent,  on  the  box.  Gracey  was  just 
bidding  adieu  to  Mrs.  Walkinshaw ;  who,  perceiving  me  from  afar, 
hailed  me  with  a  prolonged  cry,  halfway  between  a  yell  and  a  coo. 
Its  greeting  took  verbal  form  as: — "Oh,  here  is  our  young  hero! 
How  is  Filippo  Lippi  ?  How  is  Andrea  del  Sarto  ? "  And  then 
with  a  dropped  voice  of  most  offensive  empressement,  "  And  how  is 
SHE  ? "  in  capitals  of  outrageous  magnitude,  so  that  I  really  felt 
that  the  horse  turned  his  head  to  catch  the  reply.  I  asked  who  was 
she,  but  I  don't  think  I  made  a  very  strong  defence  The  attack 
was  unexpected,  and  so  unwarranted!  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  re- 
joinder was: — "That's  what  we  want  to  know;  don't  we,  Gracey 
dear?" 

I  suppose  I  muttered  something  and  passed  on  into  the  house. 
I  imagine  now  the  good  lady  saying  to  Gracey: — "  Why-y-y! — it's 
re-eally  serious.  I  had  no  idea  we  were  on  such  delicate  ground. 
Now  good-night — good-night — groorf-night!  I  must  fly.  It's  posi- 
tively seven  o'clock."  But  I  cannot  have  been  within  hearing  of  all 


376  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

that  after  reaching  the  street-door.  Imagination  forges  thess 
speeches. 

However,  I  am  quite  safe  in  my  memory  that  Gracey  came  into 
the  house  saying  to  me  in  a  most  apologetic  spirit : — "  Just  fancy ! 
Old  Walkey  had  been  wound  up  and  set  going  by  my  saying  that 
you  had  seen  an  awfully  pretty  girl  at  the  Gallery!" 

I  said  rather  warmly  that  Walkey's  intelligence  was  defective 
and  her  flavour  pronounced.  Gracey  said  I  shouldn't  call  "  stink- 
ing idiot " — my  exact  expression ! — but  .  .  ,  but  .  .  .  how 
was  Adeline  ?  I  then  "  pointed  out "  to  her  that  she  was  com- 
mitting precisely  the  same  error  against  good  feeling  and  good 
taste  as  Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  That  was  what  I  meant  when  I  said : — 
"  You're  as  bad  as  her !  " 

"  Oh,  Jackey  darling ! — you  transparent  boy,"  said  Gracey. 
''  What  is  there  to  be  so  conscious  about  ?  She's  only  a  person, 
after  all !  Why — you  don't  know  her  surname !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  At  least,  if  it  isn't  Roper,  it's  Trott."  I  had  noted 
these  as  the  only  two  duplicated  names  in  the  entry  book. 

"  Oh  dear !  "  said  Gracey  in  a  discouraged  tone.  "  Roper ! 
Trott!  What  perfectly  detestable  names!  .  .  .  Are  you  sure 
you're  not  mistaken  ? "  This  with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

J  shook  my  head.  "  A  book  in  an  entrance  hall  can't  be  mis- 
taken," said  I  with  conviction.  I  cannot  account  for  the  survival 
in  my  mind  of  this  belief,  after  fifty  years.  It  is  as  strong  now  as 
it  was  then. 

"  But  you  may  have  pitched  on  the  wrong  names  altogether," 
said  Gracey.  "That's  the  point  I" 

"  That's  no  go !  "  said  I.  "  Roper  and  Trott  are  the  only  two's, 
and  one  of  them's  A,  in  both."  So  for  the  remainder  of  that  day, 
and  indeed  for  all  the  days  that  followed,  till  my  next  visit  to 
John  Bellini,  I  had  to  submit  to  raillery  about  an  admiration 
I  could  not  deny,  for  a  young  lady  spoken  of  freely  as  Adeline  by 
Gracey  and  my  stepmother,  but  provisionally  named  Miss  Roper — 
or — Trott  by  my  father,  who  was  much  amused  at  her  existence. 

Next  Students'  Day  at  the  Gallery — Thursday,  I  think — found 
me  doing  more  'arm  than  good  to  the  Doge.  I  am  quoting  'Opkins, 
who  added : — "  Lots  of  good  work  gets  made  gormy  through  not 
leavin'  alone.  You're  spoiling  the  moddling  of  the  chin.  That 
heye  was  a  lot  better  before.  You're  losin'  the  feelin'  of  the  noars- 
trils.  Keep  your  'ands  off's  pretty  nearly  always  a  safe  rule." 
He  enlarged  on  the  theme  in  this  sense,  until  the  practice  of 
leaving  canvasses  untouched  seemed  to  be  the  safest  for  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  377 

Artist,  and  the  one  which  promised  him  most  distinction  in  his 
career. 

I  acquiesced,  saying  that  I  would  remove  my  last  hour's  work 
with  a  little  oil  on  a  bit  of  rag,  and  await  a  happier  mood;  mean- 
while concentrating  my  energies  on  the  pattern.  I  said  this  partly 
to  disfranchise  'Opkins,  as  I  saw  Adeline's  sister  approaching. 
So  I  felt  a  little  impatient  when  he  continued: — "  Another  idear! 
Gurls  next  door  make  'ay  of  any  man's  work.  Don't  you  let  this 
one  get  round  you.  You  keep  her  at  harm's  length.  7  think,  my- 
self, they  ought  to  be  kep'  separate,  if  any  work's  to  be  got  through. 
They  might  allow  'em  two  of  the  public  days.  The  Trustees  ought 
to  take  it  up,  and  put  a  step  to  all  this  millinery."  I  was  aware 
before  this  that  'Opkins  regarded  Woman  as  chiefly  Modes  and 
Robes. 

I  replied  to  him  with  some  dignity  that  I  was  not  an  ass.  I 
understood,  and  could  deal  with,  the  most  puzzling  wiles  of  the 
Artful  Sex  which  underlay  the  millinery  he  took  so  much  objec- 
tion to.  Besides,  this  young  lady,  whom  I  called  Miss  Roper  on 
speculation,  was  more  dignified  than  Trott,  had  very  nearly  done, 
and  was  going  to  make  a  sketch  of  the  Memling.  quite  out  of  my 
range.  'Opkins  breathed  freely,  and  said : — "  Ah,  now  you'll  get 
some  work  done !  " 

What  a  noble  ideal  was  'Opkins's!  If  only  it  had  not  been  his 
lot  to  exemplify  absolute  incapacity  in  Art,  what  a  future  he  might 
have  had  before  him!  The  ballast  was  all  there,  but  the  ship  was 
unseaworthy. 

The  moist-water-colour  Miss  Roper — or — Trott  greeted  me  a?  quite 
an  old  friend.  I  really  think  that  reunion  after  parting  cements 
more  intimacies  than  the  heaviest  mitraiUe  of  introductions  at  the 
first  go-off.  In  fact,  I  have  known  the  latter,  when  overdone,  to 
produce  an  almost  murderous  hatred  in  the  bosoms  in  which  they 
were  intended  to  sow  the  seeds  of  a  lasting  friendship.  In  this 
case  there  had  been  no  introduction;  little  more  than  distant 
recognition.  But  our  resurrection  after  five  days  might  have 
caused  us  to  fly — metaphorically  of  course — into  each  other's  arms, 
if  I  had  not  been  on  my  guard  against  any  inroad  of  this  sister 
into  the  territory  in  my  affections  which  I  had  dedicated  to  the 
lovely  Adeline. 

"  It  really  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  me  to  find  you  here."  ?aid  the 
young  lady.  "  I  was  afraid  you  might  not  come."  I  buttoned 
up  the  pockets  of  my  soul,  so  to  speak;  closed  its  lips,  and  for- 
bade it  the  use  of  my  eyes.  This  would  never  do.  But  a  word 
more  relieved  me.  "  Because  of  your  knife !  Do  you  know.  Mr, 


378  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Pascoe,  my  sister  forgets  everything!  But  here  it  is!  I  made  her 
give  it  up  to  me,  to  make  sure." 

I  relaxed,  and  protested — subject  to  such  restraint  as  convention 
demanded — that  all  I  had  was  at  the  disposal  of  the  said  sister 
Adeline.  Or  very  nearly.  I  suppose  what  I  said  worked  out  as 
hyperbolical  civility,  for  the  young  lady  merely  said  equably,  as 
she  handed  me  my  knife : — "  You're  very  good !  "  I  said  I  wasn't. 
Then  she  seemed  to  me  to  accept  the  position  that  the  time  had 
come  for  causerie  intime,  for  she  remarked,  while  doing  abso- 
lutely nothing,  very  carefully,  to  the  Doge,  and  varying  the  posi- 
tion of  her  head  to  see  the  result: — "So  you  are  really  to  be  a 
professional  Artist,  Mr.  Pascoe?  How  nice  that  is!" 

"  We-ell — my  Governor  says  I  may,  if  I  can !  " 

"  Oh — how  right !  "  The  speaker  seemed  stricken  with  a  kind 
of  rapture,  which  she  paused  to  enjoy.  Presently  she  dismissed 
it,  and  mixed  with  Human  Life  again.  "  Oh  dear !  "  said  she. 
"  If  only  all  other  young  men's  .  .  .  Governors  were  like  yours ! " 

"  Wouldn't  there  be  an  awful  lot  of  Artists  ? " 

"Could  there  be  too  many,  Mr.  Pascoe?"  This  was  said  re- 
proachfully, and  I  felt  humiliated  and  ashamed. 

"  Well— of  course  not!"  I  made  amends,  but  felt  that  some 
reservation  was  necessary.  "  Only  some  chaps  can  do  Art  such 
a  lot  better  than  others.  Hadn't  the  duffers  better  shut  up?" 

The  young  lady  sighed.  "  That  seems  to  me,"  said  she,  "  to 
wrap  up  the  whole  question  in  a  nutshell.  To  epitomize  it,  as 
it  were !  Who  is  to  presume  to  condemn  .  .  .  the  persons  whom 
you  so  picturesquely  call  duffers,  as  unfit  to  practise  Art,  when, 
it  may  be  that  it  is  only  their  own  Critical  Faculty  that  is  de- 
fective? Surely,  Art  is  on  a  higher  plane  than  mere  mechanics 
or  business  in  the  City."  I  suppose  I  mentioned  here  that  I  could 
produce  duffers  of  a  very  high  quality  from  the  Academy  Schools 
where  I  was  studying,  for  the  young  lady's  next  words  were,  "  Oh, 
but  is  there  not  this  terrible  possibility?  May  not  your  duffers" 
— she  emphasized  the  word  as  a  protest  against  its  slangy  char- 
acter— "  may  not  they  be  suppressed  prophets  yearning  to  unburden 
their  inner  souls? " 

I  hesitated,  having  in  mind  certain  fellow-students.  "A  ... 
I  think  you  wouldn't  think  so  if  you  saw  them,"  I  said.  I  decided 
that  'Opkins,  having  expressed  such  unfavourable  views  of  what 
I  feel  might  get  called  in  the  modern  Press  "  female  Art-influ- 
ences," did  not  deserve  to  be  left  without  critical  examination. 

"  That  chap  I  was  talking  to "  said  I,  tentatively,  to  introduce 

him. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  379 

"  The  gentleman  who  looks  a  little  like  a  grown-up  baby  ? " 

"Does  he?    Well  .    .    .  perhaps 

''With  the  complexion,  and  a  grubby  collar?" 

I  recognized  this  supplementary  estimate  of  my  friend's  appear- 
ance. "  Yes,"  I  said.  "  Same  chap !  Do  you  think  he's  yearning 
to  unburden  his  inner  soul  ? " 

"  I  should  say.    .    .    .    Is  he  a  good  friend  of  yours  ? " 

"  Middling.    Say  anything  you  like  about  him." 

"  Well — since  you  give  me  leave — I  should  say  he  was  a  vulgar 
little  man  that  drops  his  H's,  with  thick  boots." 

"Not  a    ...    suppressed  Prophet?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  say  anything  else  about  him."  This 
was  said  rather  stiffly,  and  made  me  a  little  afraid  of  pursuing 
'Opkins  as  a  topic.  I,  however,  felt  that  I  was  absolutely  bound  to 
assure  this  enthusiastic  Jady  that  'Opkins's  inner  soul,  whatever  his 
outward  seeming  life  might  be,  was  deeply  devoted  to  Art,  and 
that  nothing  would  drag  him  from  her  Shrine.  But  conscience 
compelled  me  to  add  that  he  couldn't  draw  nor  paint.  Perhaps  he 
could  sculp.  I  had  never  seen  him  try. 

"  If  he  can't  draw  or  paint,"  said  his  critic  in  a  chilly  manner. 
"  I  can't  see  that  he  has  anything  to  complain  of."  Which  seemed 
to  me  unfair  to  'Opkins,  seeing  that  neither  I  nor  he  had  put  in  a 
statement  of  grievance  on  his  behalf.  Then  she  added,  with  an 
inconsistency  I  could  scarcely  have  believed  possible  in  the 
sister  of  a  Beauty: — "Why — he's  got  a  mouth  like  a  rab- 
bit!" 

I  could  not  defend  'Opkins's  mouth,  nor  did  I  consider  myself 
bound  to  do  so.  It  was  that  sort  of  mouth  that  is  more  useful  to 
crop  herbage  than  to  sing  or  laugh.  I  thought  it  quite  fair  that 
the  moist-water-colour  sister  should  censure  it,  after  its  utter- 
ances about  her  as  a  member  of  a  Sex.  and  wondered  what  she 
would  say  if  she  knew  them.  What  would  her  incomparable  sister 
say?  .  .  .  But  hold! — would  it  not  be  against  Nature  that  Her 
lips  should  utter  a  word  about  'Opkins?  A  creature  who,  in  spite 
of  his  earnest  soul,  was  unfit  to  black  Her  boots ! 

I  hope  I  was  not  unjust  to  'Opkins.  But  his  attitude  about 
Woman  had  exasperated  me.  To  show  that  I  was  really  in  sym- 
pathy with  my  critical  neighbour,  I — without  saying  anything — 
produced  a  pocket  sketch-book  I  had  instituted  to  enable  me  to  jot 
down  Nature  as  she  arose,  and  therein  added  a  sketch  of  'Opkins's 
sleepy  face  to  the  caricatures  which  were  rapidly  absorbing  every 
leaf.  I  had  developed  a  habit  of  caricaturing  everything,  and  was 
considered  a  dab  at  it  by  my  fellow-students.  I  myself  thought  of 


380  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

this  faculty  at  that  time  as  the  merest  hors  d'oeuvre  in  the  banquet 
of  Art,  not  a  piece  de  resistance. 

"  Let  me  see,  when  it's  done !  "  said  my  neighbour,  rather  as  one 
speaks  to  a  child,  indulgently.  But  she  took  a  very  different  tone 
about  it  when  I  handed  her  a  spirited  sketch  of  'Opkins,  as  a 
rabbit,  sitting  at  an  easel  sketching  landscape.  Her  enthusiasm 
about  Art  had  struck  me  as  artificial,  but  no  laughter  was  ever 
more  genuine  than  hers  when  she  took  my  sketch-book  and  looked 
at  this  production.  It  was  perfectly  splendid,  she  said.  Why  John 
Bellini? — why  the  Doge  Loredano? — when  such  vigorous  original- 
ity as  this  was  possible.  I  need  not  say  that  I  was  gratified,  though 
I  should  hare  been  more  so  had  these  raptures  been  provoked  by 
my  Doge.  It  showed  her  want  of  tact,  that  she  did  not  hail  me  as 
a  Universal  Genius. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  walking  in  St.  James'  Park, 
a  dejected  and  humiliated — I  might  almost  say  maddened — boy. 
For  what  had  exactly  happened  was  this.  I  can  see  it  all — can 
feel  it  all  over  again,  as  I  write.  And  it  all  happened  fifty  years 
ago,  and  I  see  it  across  a  long,  long  lifetime,  full  of  real  inci- 
dents, of  real  joys  and  real  sorrows.  And  yet — it  looms  out  large 
and  makes  my  old  heart  beat  again  as  though  it  too  were  reality, 
here  in  the  Ward  where  I  shall  die,  in  the  Infirmary  of  Chelsea 
Workhouse. 

"  You  must  let  me  show  this  to  my  sister,"  said  the  moist-water- 
colour  young  lady.  "  There  is  nothing  she  enjoys  like  humorous 
caricature.  She  dotes  upon  it !  " 

And  who  so  ready  as  I  that  it  should  be  shown  to  the  object 
of  my  remote  adoration?  Yet  I  can  hardly  call  the  state  into 
which  the  proposal  threw  me  one  of  rapture.  My  heart  thumped 
too  savagely  for  that,  and  the  consciousness  of  scarlet  in  my 
cheeks  was  absolutely  painful.  I  endeavoured  to  stammer  that  I 
was  awfully  glad  and  flattered,  in  the  most  approved  manner  of  a 
Man  of  the  World. 

"  I  shall  take  it  and  show  it  to  her  at  once,"  said  my  apprecia- 
tor.  "Oh  .  .  .  won't  that  do?"  For  alarm  and  protest  were 
in  my  countenance,  I  presume.  "Why,  not?" 

"  He's  there — close  by  1     Hopkins  is." 

"  So  he  is.  I  didn't  think  of  that.  You  might  go  and  tell  her 
to  come  here.  .  .  .  No — I  don't  think  that  will  do  either.  Stop 
a  minute — I  know!  Atkinson!  Do  you  think  you  know  our  maid 
when  you  see  her?  .  .  .  Yes? — well,  she's  somewhere  about. 
Just  find  her  and  say  I  want  her.  She's  in  the  next  room  some- 
where." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  381 

I  went  off  to  find  Atkinson.  Oh,  how  unconscious  I  was  of 
what  was  coming! 

Atkinson  was  a  young  woman  whose  sole  object  was  to  scorn 
the  persons  she  spoke  of  freely  as  her  betters.  She  spurned  alike 
their  Arts  and  their  Sciences,  their  intellectual  aspirations  and 
their  mechanical  dexterity.  These  visits  to  the  National  Gallery 
had  given  her  a  rare  opportunity  of  asserting  this  individuality  at 
the  expense  of  the  great  ones  of  old  gone  by.  To  be  at  the 
National  Gallery  for  five  hours  on  two  days  of  every  week,  to 
ignore  such  a  multitude  of  masterpieces  all  at  once,  and  in  the 
very  same  breath  to  peruse  a  thrilling  tale  in  the  Family  Her- 
ald, was  an  enormous  gratification  to  Atkinson. 

I  am  afraid  that  my  summons  aroused  her  from  something 
specially  interesting  in  the  story,  as  she  clung  like  a  drowning 
woman  to  the  end  of  a  paragraph,  and  never  took  her  eyes 
off  it  for  a  moment  until  she  could  actively  ignore  the  Choice 
of  Paris  of  Rubens,  of  which  her  back  only  had  been  taking  no 
notice  hitherto — partly,  I  conceive,  on  the  score  of  delicacy. 

"  Oh — Atkinson !  Tell  your  mistress  I  want  her  here  for  a 
minute.  I've  something  to  show  her."  I  might  have  taken  a 
hint  from  this  speech,  for  it  did  not  seem  to  apply  to  a  lady's 
maid  in  the  joint  employ  of  sisters.  But  my  mind,  alas,  was 
closed  to  hints! 

The  blow  was  to  fall,  here  and  now.  For  Atkinson  was  one 
of  the  earliest  disciples  of  the  Modern  School  of  servants,  that 
says  "  Madam  "  every  ten  seconds,  and  calls  its  mistress  "  missis  " 
no  longer.  "  Tell  her  Ladyship  ? "  said  she,  tartly,  as  a  protest. 
The  reply  showed  that  the  speaker  was  one  who  would  stand 
no  nonsense,  even  from  an  Advanced  Liberal.  "  Certainly ! " 
said  she. 

"  Tell  Lady  " — I  failed  to  catch  the  name — "  that  I  have  a  draw- 
ing I  want  to  show  her.  Make  haste  and  don't  stand  there  talk- 
ing ! "  Atkinson  departed. 

My  experience  of  the  mystic  ways  of  Debrett  was  small,  but 
my  father  knew  a  lady  in  the  country  who  was  called  Lady  Sarah 
because  her  father  was  the  Earl  of  Sportlydown,  I  think.  I 
felt  I  must  know  more,  at  whatever  cost.  "  Is  your  sister,"  said 
I,  hesitatingly— "  is  she  Lady  Adeline?"  It  was  the  only  way 
I  could  see  of  mooting  the  point. 

"Oh  dear,  no!  We're  not  such  swells  as  all  that."  I  felt  a 
relief.  But  it  was  not  to  last.  The  inhuman  speech  that  fol- 
lowed came  with  a  hideous  carelessness,  as  the  speaker  was  bent 
on  subduing  to  her  will  some  moist-water-colour  that  was  out- 


382  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

witting  its  tinfoil.  "  My  sister  is  called  Lady  Coolidge  because 
her  husband  is  Sir  Montague  Coolidge.  He's  sitting  for  Kidder- 
minster. But  you  don't  care  for  Politics,  I  see." 

I  did  not  care  for  anything. 

I  don't  know  how  this  historical  calamity  came  to  be  known 
to  my  family,  as  was  most  certainly  the  case.  At  the  time,  I 
thought  they  did  not  know,  and  that  the  facts  were  hermetically 
sealed  in  my  bosom,  never  to  be  dragged  out  into  the  gaudy 
glare  of  day.  I  am  now  convinced  that  no  silence  so  profound 
as  that  which  enshrouded  my  ill-fated  passion  after  this  date 
could  have  resulted  from  anything  but  circumstantial  knowledge. 
I  am  sure  that  if  any  lingering  ignorance  had  remained  that  I 
was,  so  to  speak,  blighted,  some  accidental  remark  would  have 
betrayed  it.  But  the  topic  was  never  alluded  to,  nor  any  jocose 
remarks  made  at  my  expense,  rallying  me  on  my  penchant  for 
this  unknown  beauty.  Is  it  possible  that  Gracey  guessed  the 
facts  from  anything  in  my  manner  when  I  returned  home  that 
evening  ? 

I  thought  I  acted  my  part  so  remarkably  well.  I  was  quite 
resolved  that  no  one,  not  even  Gracey,  should  know  what  an 
effect  the  discovery  of  this  member  for  Kidderminster  had  had 
upon  me.  I  would  have  sworn  that  my  demeanour  was  normal 
by  the  time  I  returned  home  and  found  her  alone  in  the  house, 
my  father  having  been  delayed  by  some  Committee,  and  my 
stepmother  by  keeping  her  name  on  somebody's  visiting  list.  Had 
I  not  tramped  half  over  London  to  be  equal  to  the  occasion? 

"  Is  that  you,  Jackey  ?  I'm  all  in  the  dark,  and  nobody's  back. 
How's  the  National  Gallery?  How's  the  Doge  of  Venice ?"  .... 

"I  haven't  been  at  the  Gallery." 

"You  haven't  been  at  the  Gallery!" 

"  Went  for  a  walk.  ...  I  was  there  all  the  morning,  of  course." 

"Don't  run  away  upstairs  for  a  minute.  Or  are  your  feet 
wet?  All  right!  Go  and  get  dry." 

"  Oh  no — I'm  dry  enough,  for  that  matter.  .  .  .  There's  a  nail 
sticking  up.  ...  Oh  no — it  won't  hurt  for  a  minute  or 
two." 

"  Well — why  didn't  you  go  to  the  Gallery  in  the  afternoon  ? " 

"  /  don't  know.  The  Doge  hadn't  dried  .  .  .  didn't  get  on  ... 
so  I  went  for  a  walk." 

"How's  Miss  Koper  or  Trott?     How's  Adeline?" 

"  She  isn't  Miss  Roper  or  Trott.  ...  Oh  yes — she's  Adeline, 
I  suppose.  She's  Lady  Something  .  .  .  Culvert  or  Colvin,  or 
something — I  don't  know!  Coolidge  perhaps." 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  383 

"  Lady  Adeline  Coolidge,  I  suppose.  But  can  Earls  or  Mar- 
quises or — that  sort  of  people ! — be  named  Coolidge  ?  " 

"  She's  got  a  husband " — the  odious  word  may  have  stuck  a 
little — "  I  suppose  it's  after  him.  I'll  go  and  get  my  boots  off 
and  then  come  back." 

"But — oh,  Jackey — a  husband!  What  sort?  What's  his  name, 
I  mean  ? " 

I  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  he  was  a  "  House  of 
Commons-ey  chap,  and  was  Sir  Montague  Coolidge."  And 
further  that  he  was  "  Member  for  some  beastly  town,  somewhere." 

"  But.  Jackey,  why  didn't  you  look  to  see  if  she  had  a  wedding 
ring?" 

"  It  was  no  concern  of  mine.  Besides,  she'd  got  on  wash- 
leather  gloves  an  inch  thick,  to  do  pastels  in."  And  I  departed 
upstairs  for  my  boots.  That  was  all! 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

ABOUT  a  fortnight  since  my  dear  friend,  the  matron  of  the 
Infirmary,  forgot  me  and  my  need  of  writing  paper,  and  went 
away  on  leave  for  a  change.  I  didn't  like  to  ask  my  other  friend 
here,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Turner,  to  make  good  the  deficiency,  because 
he  would  have  been  curious  to  read  what  I  was  writing.  I  shall 
not  the  least  mind  his  doing  so  when  I  am  redistributed  among 
the  elements;  not  so  very  long  now,  I  hope. 

That  suggests  that  I  should  rather  like  him  to  read  what  I 
have  written,  ultimately.  How  can  I  manage  that?  I  shall  have 
to  make  him  my  executor. 

However,  I  was  afraid  to  say  to  him  that  I  wanted  writing 
paper,  as  his  supplying  it  would  have  brought  him  prematurely 
into  my  confidence.  I  had  to  await  the  return  of  Miss  Ensoll, 
when  my  wants  were  most  liberally  attended  to. 

In  that  interval  I  lost  the  thread  of  my  narrative,  and  began 
writing  again  with  the  first  memories  that  occurred  to  me,  which 
happened  to  relate  to  my  fine-art  experience  of  some  two  years 
after  I  first  went  to  Slocum's.  I  am  very  uncertain  about  dates 
and  periods,  having  nothing  but  my  own  failing  Memory  to 
go  by.  Just  think — not  a  document!  I  ask  my  Self  questions 
about  the  Past,  but  only  with  the  result  that  I  throw  discredit 
on  his  answers. 

That  incident  of  the  young  woman  at  the  National  Gallery, 
which  has  kept  my  pencil  busy  since  I  started  on  my  fresh  quires 
of  foolscap,  is  one  of  my  most  vivid  recollections  of  this  time. 
Trust  a  sense  that  one  has  made  oneself  ridiculous,  or  has  been 
so  without  any  effort  of  one's  own,  to  keep  Memory  green  in 
our  souls,  quite  as  much  as  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in 
silence  it  rolls,  or  more  so! 

Not  that  I  was  conscious  of  any  absurdity  in  my  own  be- 
haviour at  the  time!  That  consciousness  was  to  come  later.  But 
it  did  come,  and  came  upon  me  while  every  detail  of  my  first 
experience  of  the  shafts  of  Cupid  was  still  fresh  on  the  tablets 
of  my  heart;  or,  perhaps  I  should  more  rightly  say,  my  imagi- 

384 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  385 

nation.  For,  looking  back  on  it  all  now,  I  fail  to  see  that  my 
heart,  in  the  sense  I  have  ascribed  to  the  word,  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  matter. 

I  believe  it  was  imagination,  pure  and  simple,  that  made  me, 
after  the  collapse  of  that  castle  in  the  air,  take  so  kindly  to 
desolation.  I  need  not  say  that  I  resolved  that  I  should  never 
wed.  That  resolution  is  the  common  form  of  unappreciated 
Love  at  first  sight — I  mean  unpublished  love,  not  what  is  gen- 
erally understood  by  unrequited  love.  Perhaps  the  greatest  word 
ever  written  on  this  subject  of  the  tempestuous  dawn  of  passion 
in  youth — I  mean,  of  course,  Shakespeare's — would  have  had  quite 
another  climax  if  it  had  turned  out  that  Rosaline  was  already 
Another's.  I  doubt  if  Romeo  would  have  had  any  eyes  for  Juliet 
if  his  transactions  with  his  previous  charmer  had  been  on  all 
fours  with  mine  and  the  lawful  spouse  of  the  member  for  Kid- 
derminster. If  he  could  have  kindled  a  flame  on  so  slight  a 
provocation  as  mine,  his  amour  propre  would  have  kept  it  alive 
as  mine  did.  But  I  think  any  one  who  studies  the  text  of  the 
play  carefully  will  agree  with  me  that  Romeo  and  Rosaline  must 
have — if  I  may  say  so — come  to  the  scratch  rather  emphatically, 
for  Romeo  to  have  such  clear  insights  into  the  young  woman's 
private  sentiments.  However,  things  were  very  different  in  Ve- 
rona, in  those  days. 

Anyhow,  that  occurrence  at  the  National  Gallery  plunged  me 
provisionally  in  misanthropic  gloom.  I  made  a  merit  in  my  in- 
most heart  of  not  committing  suicide.  No  doubt  a  natural  dis- 
taste for  the  dagger  and  the  poison-cup  contributed  to  the  adop- 
tion of  this  merit,  but  its  services  remained  unacknowledged.  I 
discerned  also  an  element  of  self-denial  in  my  voluntary  self- 
dedication  to  celibacy,  insomuch  as  it  pointed  to  the  joint  lives 
of  my  Self  and  Gracey,  respected  and  blameless,  being  passed  in 
an  extremely  comfortable  home  with  a  mammoth  Studio  attached, 
wherein  works  of  European  fame  would  grow  slowly,  anticipated 
by  the  Press.  Very  curiously,  this  day-dream  did  not  run  counter 
to  a  sort  of  Greek  Chorus;  a  girl  of  great  penetration  and  sym- 
pathy, with  no  looks  to  speak  of,  but  with  a  very  good  figure, 
who  read  my  story  in  my  prematurely  grave  demeanour,  and 
formed  an  attachment  to  me  which  I  was  unable  to  requite. 
Under  such  circumstances  could  I  act  otherwise  than  as  I  did? 
I  generously  bestowed  my  hand  upon  her — everything  else  in  my 
gift  having  been  blighted;  and  the  large  apartment,  formerly 
occupied  by  Gracey,  was  assigned  to  my  Self  and  the  Chorus; 
she  herself  taking  possession  of  the  one  I  had  occupied,  twenty 


£86  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

feet  by  fifteen,  with  the  view  over  the  Earl  of  Somewhere's  Park. 
I  paid  detailed  attention  to  all  these  points. 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  write  one  satisfactory  memory  in  this 
welter  of  Egotism.  All  my  day-dreams  presupposed  that  the 
status  quo  was  to  come  to  a  natural  end.  My  father  had  to  die, 
universally  lamented,  of  what  the  American  called  "  plain  death." 
Imagination  recoiled  from  a  scheme  which  would  send  me  to  live 
apart  from  my  father,  and  no  variation  of  it  made  it  possible 
for  The  Retreat  to  accommodate  me  and  the  Chorus,  especially 
as  we  proposed  to  become  the  parents  of  a  very  large  number 
of  athletic  boys  and  beautiful  girls.  My  dreams  assigned  to 
my  father  a  good,  long  life,  and  the  Chorus  had  to  wait. 

It  gives  me  another  pleasure,  and  a  great  one,  to  recall  how 
that  dearest  sister  ever  man  had  yet,  made  effort  after  effort  to 
discover  that  Chorus,  and  to  reconcile  me  to  my  lot.  But  the 
candidates  for  my  affections  that  she  produced  never  answered 
to  my  dream-forecast,  in  any  particular.  Indeed,  I  am  afraid 
they  were  never  so  good-looking,  in  spite  of  express  reservations 
on  the  subject  of  beauty,  made  lest  I  should  have  been  supposed — 
by  my  Self,  I  presume — still  susceptible  to  its  influence. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  Sophy  Curtis,  who  was  Gracey's  first  experi- 
ment on  the  blighted  sensibilities  of  her  brother,  was  a  very 
poor  sample  of  looks,  as  compared  with  the  Chorus  of  my  dream. 
I  can't  remember  what  she  was  like,  only  that  she  was  plain. 
She  had  sterling  qualities,  and  was  worthy  of  esteem.  She 
dressed  in  sober  colours,  and  could  be  identified  through  a  sub- 
stantial door  panel  by  the  sound  of  her  boots.  I  fancy  she  must 
have  been  a  Thinker,  in  embryo,  because  she  lent  you  books, 
though  she  was  barely  nineteen.  There  was  no  harm  in  that; 
on  the  contrary,  it  was  obliging.  But  there  are  ways  and  ways 
of  doing  things.  Persons  who  converse  earnestly  on  topics,  and 
then  lend  you  books,  ought  not  to  put  book-marks  in  them  to 
show  the  place.  It  ties  you  down.  I  would  not  ask  the  well- 
informed  to  build  golden  bridges  to  favour  escape  from  the 
perusal  of  Sound  Literature,  but  I  do  feel  that  catechism  on 
passages  should  be  a  statutable  offence. 

Miss  Curtis's  individuality  may  have  been  made  in  Germany. 
She  had  been  sent  there  to  be  educated  by  two  credulous  parents 
Who  had  accepted  the  Teutonic  estimate  of  its  own  intellectual 
Btatus;  the  sum-total  of  which  has  no  doubt  grown  of  late  years, 
but  which  did  credit  to  Germany's  powers  of  self-estimation  fifty 
years  ago.  Her  performance  on  her  own  trumpet  has  been  for- 
tissimo accelerando  since  then. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  387 

The  Hanbury  Curtises — that  is  the  sort  they  were — had  to 
take  the  consequences  of  Leipzig,  where  their  Sophy  was  sent 
to  school.  For  she  came  home  omniscient.  They  had,  in  fact, 
constructed  a  Frankenstein  Monster,  using  for  raw  material  an 
ordinarily  stupid  daughter,  such  as  one  would  impute  to  people 
of  their  name,  comfortably  off  and  well-connected.  She  came 
back  after  two  years  of  Kultur,  quoting  Lessing.  Gracey  was 
immensely  impressed  with  her  solidity  and  reality,  not  unaccom- 
panied by  geist.  Do  say  she's  clever,  Jackey,  at  least ! "  said 
Gracey,  after  I  had  declined  to  admit  that  she  had  any  looks 
whatever;  and  had,  in  fact,  suggested  that  she  had  been  bitten 
by  a  hausfrau,  and  that  the  virus  had  permeated  her  system 
and  altered  her  appearance. 

"  How  do  you  know  what  she  talks  is  really  German,  and  not 
make-up?"  said  I.  To  which  Gracey  replied: — "How  can  it 
be  anything  else,  when  she's  been  at  Leipzig  ? "  I  endeavoured  to 
put  into  words  an  impression  my  first  introduction  to  this  young 
lady  had  given  me,  to  the  effect  that  she  looked  as  if  she  believed 
you  were  already  confuted  in  some  discussion ;  and  would  be  next 
time,  so  had  better  not  offer  opinions.  I  did  not  succeed,  getting 
no  further  than: — "Why  does  she  always  look  as  if  she  had 
come  in  in  the  middle,  and  knew  better  ? "  Gracey  only  called 
me  Silly  Jackey,  so  I  conclude  that  she  saw  truth  in  the  description. 

I  suppose  it  was  just  as  well  that  I  should  treat  this  young 
woman  with  undisguised  scorn,  as  my  doing  so  prevented  Gracey 
forming  any  false  hopes  of  success.  I  am  afraid  I  was  moved 
to  reject  advances  on  her  behalf  by  what  may  have  been  honesty, 
but  certainly  was  not  modesty.  I  am  convinced  now  that  young 
men  need  not  be  so  very  much  on  the  alert  to  prevent  young 
women  falling  in  love  with  them.  If  they  will  postpone  their 
super-sensitiveness  till  later  in  life,  and  not  run  into  the  oppo- 
site extreme  of  taking  for  granted  that  forty-odd,  for  instance, 
gives  carte  blanche  to  friendship  with  feminine  juniors,  their 
essays  towards  conscience  will,  to  my  thinking,  not  be  wasted. 
Mine  were,  in  this  instance;  and  Gracey's  hopes  that  I  had 
found  a  haven  would  in  any  case  have  been  disappointed.  For 
the  haven — a  dry  dock  would  be  a  better  metaphor — was  already 
occupied  by  a  German  ship.  In  other  words,  Miss  Curtis  had 
been  for  some  months  plighted  to  a  Professor  with  seven  con- 
sonants and  one  vowel  in  his  name.  The  nearest  I  can  go  to 
it  now  is  Spretsch.  Very  likely  it  is  wrong. 

Gracey  was  so  convinced  that  sterling  worth  and  a  well-informed 
mind  were  what  were  needful  for  my  happiness  that  she  clung 


388  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

to  Sophy  Curtis  with  tenacity  to  the  very  last.  She  never  could 
bring  herself  to  believe  that  I  regarded  the  young  woman  with 
.  .  .  Well ! — I  will  not  say  abhorrence  .  .  .  but  with — if  the  ex- 
pression can  be  permitted — startling  indifference.  So  far  as  I 
could  resent  anything  done  by  Gracey,  I  resented  her  choice  of 
such  a  prudent  and  right-minded  and  clear-sighted  person  as 
the  partner  of  my  soul.  I  did  not  want  a  plain  pudding,  how- 
ever well-made.  I  wanted  raisins,  and  sudden  unsuspected  lemon- 
peel,  and  citron. 

I  really  was  relieved  when  one  day  Gracey  came  home  from 
the  Curtises  not  exactly  boiling  with  indignation,  but  with  heat- 
bubbles  throwing  out  hints  that  she  might  ultimately  do  so.  The 
Teuton,  Spretsch,  had  been  there,  and  Sophy  had  actually  taken 
her  aside  to  say  with  triumphant  mystery : — "  I  see  you  have 
guessed  our  secret ! "  Whereupon  my  dear  little  sister,  taken 
aback,  had  said,  grammarlessly : — "Who's  us?"  To  which  the 
reply  was : — "  Why,  of  course,  the  Herr  Professor  and  myself, 
dear  Gracey !  Who  should  it  be  ?  " 

My  reception  of  this  intelligence  justified  an  expression  I 
have  used,  for  my  indifference  did  really  startle  its  hearer.  I 
drew  a  German  Professor,  with  a  phrenological  forehead  and  a 
piercing  gaze,  on  the  last  empty  page  of  my  pocket  sketch-book; 
and  Gracey  was  interested,  as  she  always  was  in  my  caricatures, 
though  she  recognized  that  my  mission  was  loftier.  This  time, 
she  only  remarked  that  Sophy's  Professor  wasn't  the  thick  sort; 
but  was  just  as  intense,  or  intenser. 

I  do  not  consider  that  Gracey  played  fair  when  she  tried  to 
prove  that  visible  admiration  of  her  Curtis  on  my  part  had  sug- 
gested our  adjustment  as  a  couple.  It  was  all  very  well  to  deride 
Sophy  now,  she  said,  but  I  hadn't  done  so  the  first  time  I  saw 
her.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  offered  to  lend  her  James  Lee's  Wife, 
to  prove  my  position  that  Browning  was  obscure,  and,  indeed, 
unaware  of  his  own  meaning.  To  avoid  acknowledgment  of  any- 
thing whatever,  which  might  have  weakened  my  position,  I  treated 
Browning's  intelligibility  as  the  point  under  discussion,  and  said: 
— "  Well — I  was  quite  right,  anyhow.  You  know  you  don't  know 
what  he  means,  or  any  one  else."  However,  this  red  herring  failed. 
"  You  perfectly  well  know,"  said  Gracey,  "  that  you  did  lend  it 
to  her,  so  it's  no  use  pretending  you  didn't."  I  said,  with  warmth : 
— "  Very  well,  then !  I  suppose  one's  spooney  about  every  girl 
one  lends  James  Lee's  Wife  to,  no  matter  how  dried-up  she  is." 

It  was  some  time  before  Gracey  submitted  another  sample  for 
my  approval.  Or,  perhaps  I  should  say  she  was  timid  in  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  389 

selection  of  candidates,  and  did  not  push  their  claims  resolutely 
enough.  Now  that  I  think  over  the  time,  I  see  that  the  whole 
of  it  was  chequered  with  Gracey's  friends,  and  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting what  never  crossed  my  mind  then,  that  every  separate 
one  of  these  very  excellent  young  women  was  weighed  in  the 
balance,  carefully  considered,  and  either  accepted  or  rejected  as 
qualified  for  the  headship  of  that  household  with  the  mammoth 
Studio,  or  its  equivalent  in  my  sister's  mind.  On  my  side,  the 
rejection  of  the  accepted  ones  was  vigorous  and  decisive,  and  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  the  only  one  that  found  any  favour 
at  all  in  my  sight  was  still  in  the  balance  when  I  was  introduced 
to  her,  and  was  found  wanting  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  days. 
Her  name  was  Cynthia  Lowndes,  and  she  was  a  large  coal  mer- 
chant's daughter.  The  adjective  here  qualifies  the  father,  but  it 
was  not  inapplicable  to  the  daughter.  So  it  seemed  to  me 
when  I  entered  our  drawing-room  only  knowing  that  Gracey  had 
a  friend  there,  but  with  a  sidelong  curiosity  to  see  what  the  friend 
was  like. 

The  uncertainty  continued  after  I  had  entered  the  room.  For 
it  was  half-dark,  and  I  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  occupant 
of  our  sofa,  who  was  therefore,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a 
skirt,  gloves,  and  a  parasol.  Gracey  was  at  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
outside  it.  Otherwise  she  would  have  had  to  sit  on  the  skirt, 
for  these  were  the  days  of  voluminous  crinolines;  and  a  side- 
fling  on  a  fauteuil,  covered  in  thereby,  was  an  attitude  much 
affected  by  fashionable  elegance.  I  was  in  its  presence,  evidently; 
and  touched  the  glove  it  extended  to  me  with  some  trepidation 
on  being  introduced  as  Gracey's  brother  Eustace  to  Miss  Cynthia 
Lowndes,  who — said  Gracey,  was  so  very  kind  as  to  offer  us  two 
places  in  a  box  at  the  Opera,  because  the  Nickensons  had  dis- 
appointed her.  It  was  very  tiresome  of  Kate  Nickenson,  who 
might  have  known  that  her  sister-in-law  wouldn't  pull  through. 

I  was  still  at  that  time  pursuing  a  policy  of  morose  isolation, 
which  I  assigned  in  my  own  inner  consciousness  to  that  misad- 
venture at  the  National  Gallery,  but  which  was  probably  only 
a  crotchet  of  an  inexplicable  egotism — a  young  man's  craze  which 
would  have  taken  some  other  form  if  I  had  never  crossed  the  path 
of  the  fascinating  Adeline.  I  therefore  suggested  that  Gracey 
had  better  get  Jemima-  to  go,  as  I  had  an  engagement  and  a 
cold,  and  never  went  anywhere  in  the  evening  when  the  Life 
School  was  on,  and  so  forth — all  feeble  excuse-mongering. 

"  Oh,  nawnsence !  "  said  Miss  Cynthia  Lowndes,  who  drawled. 
It  amuses  me  to  spell  her  pronunciation  literally.  "  You  mast 


390  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

calm,  aw  we  shahn't  have  a  gentleman.  We  must  have  a  gentle- 
man. Yaw  broth'rawt  to  be  ashamed,  Miss  Pascoe,  to  try  to  put 
us  awf  with  Je — maima!  ....  Oh,  I'm  sawry,  but  how  was  I 
to  know?" 

"  How  could  you  know  ? "  said  Gracey,  who  had  murmured  that 
I  meant  Aunt  Helen.  She  added  that  I  really  ought  to  take  care 
what  I  said  before  visitors. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  march,"  said  Miss  Lowndes.  "  Visitahs 
is  so  march  bettah  than  strainjars.  Of  cawce,  visitahs."  I  took 
a  shrewd  glance  through  the  gloom  at  the  lips  that  spoke,  and 
perceived  that  they  were — shall  I  say  fruity?  Also  that  they 
harboured  white  teeth.  I  made  concession,  saying : — "  Isn't  it 
rather  rot  to  be  so  particular  ? "  The  net  result  of  this  tended 
towards  the  dispersal  of  Miss  Lowndes's  strangership. 

"Well!"  said  Gracey,  with  her  chin  in  her  palms,  and  her 
elbows  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  outside  which  she  was  kept  by 
her  visitor's  expansive  skirt.  "  The  point  is,  Jackey,  will  you 
go  to  the  Opera  on  Wednesday,  or  will  you  not  ? "  I  said  of 
course  I  could  chuck  the  Life  for  one  evening,  if  you  came  to 
that.  Gracey  said: — "Very  well,  then,  that's  settled!  You're  to 
chuck  the  Life."  I  remember  thinking,  then  and  there,  that 
in  consideration  of  my  sad  experience,  Gracey  might  begin  to 
treat  me  a  little  more  like  a  man.  I  did!  not  think  long,  be- 
cause Miss  Lowndes  was  hurrying  away,  and  I  wanted  to  see 
her  face  under  the  gas  lamp  in  our  entrance  hall.  Who  could 
know  she  was  not  that  Greek  Chorus? 

"  What  did  you  say  your  friend's  name  was,  Chick?"  said  my 
father  to  Gracey  the  evening  after  the  Opera. 

"  Cyn  Lowndes,"  said  Gracey.  "  Cyn's  short  for  Cynthia."  I 
was  rather  taken  aback  when  she  added : — "  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
like  her.  I  don't  know." 

"Short  for  Cynthia,  is  it?  That's  why  I  asked.  Who  was  to 
know  that  it  wasn't  short  for  Eve  and  the  Serpent  and  the 
Garden  of  Eden?  But  why  don't  you  like  her,  Chick?  Don't 
other  people's  chicks  like  her?"  My  father  was  evidently  curious 
about  the  young  woman,  whom  he  had  only  just  caught  sight  of 
on  the  previous  evening. 

But  Gracey  was  cogitating  over  the  name.  "Why  Eve  and 
the  Serpent?"  said  she.  Then  she  fructified.  "Oh,  I  see!  But 
it's  not  spelt  the  same."  She  evidently  could  not  find  reason 
for  her  verdict  of  dislike.  But  she  repeated  it,  with  reinforce- 
ments. "  Well — I'm  not  sure  that  I  do.  In  reality,  I'm  not  sure 
that  I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't  like  her."  I  think  she  repented  a 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  391 

little  of  her  style,  for  she  counted  her  negatives  on  her  pretty 
finger  tips,  to  see  if  they  were  right. 

"Won't  it  wash?"  said  my  father,  waiting.  To  which  Gracey 
replied: — "Don't  talk  and  I  shall  be  able  to  see.  .  .  .  No,  it  never 
comes  right  when  once  it  seems  wrong.  Anyhow,  I  don't — well — 
I  don't  love  her!  " 

''  I  think  it's  a  jolly  shame  of  you  to  back  out,  G.,"  said 
I.  "  You  were  such  nuts  upon  her  at  first.  Anyhow,  she  did 
take  us  to  Covent  Garden — you  must  admit  that ! " 

"  Jackey's  epris,"  said  Gracey,  maliciously.  "  It  was  the  rose- 
coloured  satin  with  the  eiderdown  facings."  I  did  not  condescend 
to  reply.  "  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  pearl  necklace.  Or  the  throat. 
Or  the  shoulder-traps.  Shoulder-straps  go  a  long  way." 

Gracey's  penetration  was  unaccountable.  My  stepmother's  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  the  shoulder-straps.  "  I  thought  them 
bad  style,"  said  she.  "Perhaps  I'm  old-fashioned."  I  saw  that 
the  shoulder-straps  had  a  good  deal  to  answer  for.  I  said,  lying 
deliberately,  that  I  had  not  taken  particular  notice  of  the  shoulder- 
straps,  and  Gracey  looked  incredulous.  They  were  the  sort  that 
are  said  to  have  had  a  large  share  in  the  consolidation  of  Anti- 
Vaccination. 

We  never  saw  very  much  of  Cynthia  Lowndes.  She  creeps  into 
my  recollections  because  she  was  the  only  young  person  in  whom 
Gracey  discerned  a  suitable  partie  for  myself — because  I  am  sure 
she  did  so,  in  the  very  first  hours  of  our  acquaintance — and  for 
whom  I  personally  entertained  any  sentiment  except  one  of  stolid 
indifference,  sometimes  with  a  flavour  of  antipathy  as  slight  as 
the  suspicion  of  onion  that  a  skilful  cook  produces  by  rubbing 
a  clean-cut  bulb  on  the  interior  of  a  cooking  vessel.  Whether  it 
was  the  shoulder-straps  that  made  one  of  Cupid's  shafts  graze  me 
in  an  otherwise  wasted  flight  I  no  more  know  than  I  do  what 
part  it  was  of  Cynthia's  behaviour  at  La  Somnanibula  that  made 
her  stand  lower  in  my  dear  little  sister's  good  opinion.  It  may 
have  been  that  she  felt  that  the  young  lady's  drawl  could  not  be 
endured  sine  die.  Or  that  the  drawler's  male  acquaintances — 
faultless  in  broadcloth,  spotless  in  linen,  reminiscent  of  half- 
crown  cigars — so  evidently  wondered  who  the  devil  Mr.  and 
Miss  Pascoe  were,  when  that  young  lady  and  gentleman  were 
introduced  pro  forma;  and  excluded  them  from  their  knowing 
conversation  about  who  that  was  in  the  Royal  box,  and  how 
Trebelli  wasn't  up  to  her  usual  mark  tonight.  I  don't  think 
these  swells — as  I  suppose  they  were — destroyed  our  enjoyment  of 
the  Somnambula,  but  I  think  we  felt  out  of  our  element. 


392  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  suppose  the  fact  was  that  Miss  Cynthia's  chaperons  had 
failed  her  suddenly,  and  that  she  could  not  suit  herself  with  a 
substitute  at  a  day's  notice;  so  had  to  fall  back  on  that  harm- 
less little  Miss  Pascoe,  that  limped,  whom  she  had  met  at  the  Choral- 
Society.  The  other  gentleman  of  the  party  was  Sir  Somebody, 
but  he  took  no  notice  of  us,  and  I  have  forgotten  his  name. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  meteoric  passage  of  this  young 
lady  across  the  sky  of  my  imagination  left  no  trace  behind.  My 
self-respect  at  that  time  was  involved  in  the  maintenance  of  a 
constellation,  the  memory  of  the  National  Gallery  beauty.  Amour 
propre,  like  the  shoulder-straps,  goes  a  long  way — only  in  the 
opposite  direction — in  steadying  the  unreal  fancies  of  a  dreamy 
youth.  That  is  what  I  was,  for  many  years.  I  was  unreal  in 
my  choice  of  art  as  a  profession — unreal  in  my  vacillations  on 
the  outskirts  of  Love.  The  two  chance  samples  of  the  latter  fire, 
divine  or  otherwise,  that  I  have  referred  to,  both  had  exactly 
the  same  character,  that  the  tinder  caught  almost  before  the  flint 
showed  a  spark. 

I  am  not  sure  that  that  dear  sister  of  mine  was  good  for 
my  prospects  in  this  very  important  department  of  life.  If  it 
had  been  the  decree  of  Fate  that  I  should  have  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, I  should  have  besought  and  enjoined  the  daughters  not 
to  meddle  with  the  love-affairs  of  the  sons.  They  would  have 
been  in  no  danger  of  interference  in  theirs.  Their  insignificance 
would  probably  have  protected  them;  or,  perhaps  I  should  say; 
their  brothers'  absorption  in  their  own  greatness,  and  confidence 
that  their  sisters  would  never  have  penchants  for  that  idiot  Brown, 
that  booby  Jones,  or  that  ass  Robinson.  But  I  would  have  said 
to  those  daughters : — "  At  least,  when  you  detect  a  germ  of  inter- 
est in  some  young  lady  on  your  brothers'  part,  do  not  call  out  to 
them  across  the  room  that  you  perceive  they  are  falling  in  love 
with  Zenobia  or  Semiramis  or  Jtfary  Ann,  as  may  be!  See  noth- 
ing, but  do  not  announce  that  fact,  and  urge  Zenobia  and  your 
brother  to  go  on  and  never  mind  you !  "  I  would  have  pointed  out 
to  those  daughters,  that  whoever  wishes  to  fan  a  flame  should  do 
it  very  gently  at  first,  and  not  like  a  Whitehead  torpedo;  and 
that  it  is  better,  on  the  whole,  to  leave  the  nascent  spark  alone, 
to  live  or  die  as  the  fuel  and  the  atmosphere  decide.  But  no  son 
or  daughter  of  mine  ever  grew  up,  so  I  have  had  no  chance  of 
saying  all  this  to  any  one. 

There  were  two  sides  to  my  susceptibility  to  Gracey's  influence. 
The  reason  that  I  was  so  contented  with  my  home  life,  and 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  393 

sought  so  little — or  rather,  not  at  all — the  alleviations  that  so 
many  youths  find  in  a  succession  of  fruitless  flirtations  and  engage- 
ments, was  that  Gracey's  own  companionship  went  so  far  to  make 
these  alleviations  unnecessary.  I  know  that  no  sister's  love  can 
make  good  the  total  absence  of  the  other  sort  from  a  man's  life. 
Yet  it  may  stand  between  him  and  an  active  consciousness  of  his 
deficiencies.  That  was  one  reason  why  Gracey  steered  my  boat, 
and  why  I  never  looked  ahead  to  guide  it. 

The  other  was  connected  with  a  vision  that,  do  what  I  would, 
haunted  me  at  intervals — Gracey  forsaken  in  spinsterhood,  and 
even  kept  away  from  me  by  the  very  marriage  she  herself  had 
promoted.  I  found  that  whenever  I  "  offered  in "  an  image  of 
one  of  Gracey's  nominees  as  sole  mistress  of  the  house  attached 
to  the  mammoth  Studio,  some  untoward  domestic  problem  was 
to  the  fore,  of  which  Gracey  and  the  said  nominee  propounded 
different  solutions.  I  tried  Miss  Sophia  Curtis  in  an  inexplicable 
dress  which  I  thought  suited  her,  and  expressed  generally  the  terms 
of  our  marriage.  Videlicet,  toleration  on  my  part;  and  on  hers 
penitence  for  the  views'  she  had  entertained  of  Lessing,  who 
figured  in  my  dream  as  a  sort  of  personification  of  all  things  Ger- 
man— geist  for  instance.  She  had  not  wedded  the  Leipzig  Profes- 
sor yet,  so  my  dream  involved  no  outrage  on  morality.  In  my 
air-castle  she  and  Gracey  did  not  "  hit  it  off  "  at  all.  I  found  my 
hypothetical  Self,  while  I  always  took  Gracey's  part,  pointing  out 
to  her  that  it  was  really  she  that  was  to  blame,  for  bringing  about 
a  union  between  her  brother  and  one  who,  with  the  highest  moral 
qualities,  had  no  soul  whatever,  and  was — if  the  truth  must  be 
spoken — little  better  than  a  dried  up  prig,  an  opinionated  doctri- 
naire, without  personal  attractions  that  might  have  compensated 
a  loving  husband  for  her  spiritual  shortcomings.  Gracey,  the 
hypothetical,  wept;  and  acknowledged,  now  that  it  was  too  late, 
the  rash  presumption  of  the  officious  bystander  who  interfered 
with  and  thwarted  the  decrees  of  Providence  and  Destiny,  who 
had  evidently  said  to  one  another  that  Eustace  Pascoe,  R.  A., 
whose  ideal  had  unfortunately  wedded  the  sitting  member  for 
Kidderminster,  would  cultivate  his  rare  genius  best  as  an  un- 
married man,  whose  devoted  sister  would  keep  his  house  and  darn 
his  socks,  and  sit  admiringly  at  the  feet  that  awaited  them.  I 
have  observed  since  then  that  Proridence  and  Destiny  are  weak 
characters,  whose  little  plans  are  always  being  upset  by  meddle- 
some outsiders. 

When,  instead  of  the  image  of  Miss  Curtis,  I  supplied  that 


394  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

of  Miss  Cynthia  Lowndes,  the  denouement  of  the  drama  was  more 
exciting,  and  had  more  the  character  of  a  Problem  Play.  What 
happened  was  entirely  the  fault  of  this  image,  which  threw  it- 
self at  my  feet,  or  did  something  too  pointed  for  me  to  over- 
look. I  am  not  sure  that  it  did  not  underline  the  words  tf  Upon 
that  hint  I  spake  "  in  Othello  on  our  drawing-room  table  at  The 
Retreat,  and  hand  me  the  rolume  open.  That  weak  character, 
Destiny,  then  managed  to  get  one  of  her  Decrees  attended  to, 
and  an  ill-assorted  union  was  the  result.  The  husband  soon 
wearied  of  the  shallow  superficial  nature  to  which  he  had  been 
blinded  by  shoulder-straps  or  by  Bad  Style,  suppose  we  say — 
and  became  more  and  more  absorbed  in  his  Art,  which  the  shal- 
low superficial  nature  could  not  the  least  understand.  The  image 
of  his  sister,  always  devoted  to  him,  endeavoured  in  vain  to  stem 
the  rising  tide  of  connubial  indifference.  He  retired  morosely 
to  his  Studio,  where  lunch  was  brought  to  him  on  a  tray.  Nat- 
urally, the  superficial  one,  thus  deserted,  flashed  her  effulgence 
on  Society,  with  the  result  that  the  Better  Sort  thereof  looked 
askance  at  her.  She  didn't  care,  because  her  beauty,  which  was 
undeniable,  ensured  her  a  following  of  devoted  admirers;  chiefly 
I  believe,  Baronets,  half-pay  Officers,  and  Wits.  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  the  selection  now,  but  I  certainly  remember  it. 
The  Better  Sort  of  Society  then  went  a  step  further  and  declined 
to  meet  her.  The  dream,  which  was  like  the  mixture  that  may 
be  taken  before,  during,  or  after  meals,  terminated  variously 
at  different  times.  Sometimes  it  was  a  Guilty  Couple.  Some- 
times the  curtain  fell  on  reconciled  misunderstanding,  amid  the 
execrations  of  baffled  Baronets;  sometimes  on  magnanimous  for- 
giveness by  my  own  image,  which  I  am  inclined  to  think  was 
ill-executed;  and  penitence,  by  that  of  the  principal  female  char- 
acter, which  certainly  was  uncalled  for,  if  the  Mrs.  Spooner  whom 
I  met  thirty  years  later  had  really  been  Cynthia  Lowndes.  How- 
ever, she  vouched  for  it,  and  must  have  known.  I  did  not  men- 
tion the  dream. 

It  was  a  dream  that  pleased  me  to  dwell  on,  but  I  doubt  if  I 
recognized  the  reason  of  my  satisfaction  at  the  time.  It  was 
that  it  was  open  to  such  a  gratifying  end;  the  return  of  Gracey 
banished  by  the  Superficial  Nature,  to  my  desecrated  hearth. 
The  solace,  renewable  at  will,  of  commiseration  from  Gracey's 
image,  far  in  excess  of  my  deserts,  was  indescribable.  My  own 
image,  I  need  hardly  say,  posed  as  that  of  a  generous  martyr, 
and  accepted  homage  from  Gracey's  in  such  plenty,  that  I  marvel 
now  that  I  never  detected  my  imposture.  I  never  did.  I  con- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  395 

sumed,  in  any  quantity  in  which  I  chose  to  supply  it,  the  coarsest 
food  that  ever  was  offered  to  the  palate  of  egotism  by  its  own 
unchecked  cook. 

I  confess  to  feeling  angry  with  my  Self,  that  he  never  sug- 
gested to  me  an  explanation  of  Gracey's  devotion  to  her  silly 
young  brother.  He  might  at  least  have  said  to  me : — "  Stupid 
boy,  can  you  not  see  how  much  less  active  your  sister's  interest 
in  your  affaires  de  coeur  would  be  if  she  had  any  of  her  own  ?  " 
He  would  not  have  needed  to  force  home  to  my  mind  the  cause 
of  her  ready  acceptance  of  spinsterhood.  I  recognize  it  clearly 
now,  as  I  look  back,  but  I  am  very  sure  I  did  not  see  it  then, 
and  indeed  very  unsure  that  she  did.  I  see  now  that  she  tacitly 
accepted  the  effect  of  Monty's  death,  but  I  doubt  if  she  scheduled 
the  terms  and  conditions  of  her  own  life.  She  did  not  say  to 
herself,  "  T  shall  never  marry,  because  I  shall  never  love  any  man 
as  I  loved  Monty,"  for  the  simple  reason  that  her  affection  for 
that  friend  of  her  girlhood  had  never  been  officially  defined  as 
Love.  I  can  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  write  that  it  was  just 
plain  affection,  unstained  by  Love;  but  strong  enough  to  wound 
to  the  quick,  and  leave  an  uneffaceable  scar.  I  conceive  that  she 
may  have  worded  the  matter  in  her  own  mind  thus : — "  If  I  were 
another  sort  of  girl,  with  admirers  and  no  limp,  and  one  of  them 
was  breaking  his  heart  about  me,  I  might  marry  him  to  be 
obliging.  And  I  daresay  he  would  be  a  very  good  boy  in  his  own 
way.  But  it  never  would  be  the  same  as  if.  ..."  And  there 
thought  would  come  to  a  cul-de-sac,  or  hark  back  a  year  or  so 
to  the  old  days,  and  that  last  parting,  and  their  only  kiss. 

But  none  of  this  reached  my  mind  through  its  panoply  of 
selfishness,  and  I  continued  to  accept  as  my  due — Heaven  knows 
why ! — my  sister's  constant  thought  for  my  well-being,  and  to  give 
unquestioning  acquiescence  to  her  own  version  of  herself — that 
she  didn't  matter!  I  did  not  takg  her  word  for  it,  for  she  gave 
me  none.  It  was,  somehow,  an  understood  thing;  the  understand- 
ing of  which  was  partly  due  to  a  kind  of  docility  on  my  part, 
which  mignt  I  hope  have  varied  had  Gracey's  inner  conviction 
that  she  scarcely  counted  for  anything  had  a  less  mesmeric  effect 
on  me.  This  disposition  on  my  part  did  not  vary,  or  rebel  against 
the  absurdity  of  that  misunderstanding,  and  I  am  afraid  I  cul- 
tivated it  for  the  sake  of  the  benefits  that  accrued.  Anyhow,  I 
was  too  little  on  the  alert  about  the  inner  life  of  a  sister  whom 
I  nevertheless  really  loved,  to  be  alive  to  the  undercurrent  of 
her  history. 

Sometimes,  in  writing  all  this,  I  hope  I  am  too  severe  on  that 


396  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

crude  silly  Self  that  I  look  back  on  now,  fifty  years  later,  know- 
ing that  it  was  mine,  and  hoping  that  it  was  no  worse  than 
the  averages  Selves  of  its  fellow-units  of  the  same  age  and  sex. 
Oftener,  that  hope  becomes  a  certainty,  and  then  follows  the 
reflection  that  that  certainty  is  not  worth  having.  For,  think 
of  the  standard  of  manhood  it  sets  up!  How  can  old  age  retain 
any  self-respect  at  all,  if  its  youth  has  been  no  better  than  the 
male  average?  It  is  such  a  meagre  satisfaction,  to  think  that  one 
has  been,  after  all,  no  worse  than  anybody  else. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

IT  is  easier  for  me  to  write  recollections  at  random — to  tell  mere 
events;  anywhere,  anywhen — than  to  fix  dates  and  assign  prior- 
ities, without  a  clue  or  a  document  for  guide.  I  could  not  write 
at  all  if  it  were  not  that  now  and  again  a  fact  jumps  out  with 
an  indisputable  numeral  and  clears  chronology. 

This  happened  when  I  wrote  about  that  visit  of  Cooky  and 
myself  to  our  old  home  in  Mecklenburg  Square.  The  year  of  this 
was  the  first  year  of  the  Indian  Mutiny,  for  was  not  my  friend 
just  on  the  edge  of  departure?  The  news  of  his  death  came  in 
the  beginning  of  '58.  I  remember  as  a  fact,  referred  to  at  the  time, 
that  this  was  in  our  third  Chelsea  year.  We  must  have  been 
there  just  over  two  years — since  the  end  of  '55.  But  the  date 
I  am  especially  referring  to,  which  these  evolved,  is  that  of  a 
letter  my  Uncle  Francis  wrote  to  my  father  on  the  occasion  of 
the  renewal  of  his  three,  five,  and  seven  years'  lease  to  his  tenant, 
Mr.  Hawkins.  This  was  necessarily  '62 — and  I  was  not  yet  twenty- 
three. 

I  remember  the  letter,  and  the  mention  in  it  of  Mr.  Hawkins's 
short  lease,  which  he  wanted  to  rejuvenate  as  a  long  lease.  Also 
that  Mr.  Hawkins  had  laid  some  stress  on  the  removal  of  some 
goods  belonging  to  his  landlord,  as  he  declined  to  warehouse  them 
any  longer.  The  letter  seemed  to  imply  that  this  gentleman  had 
made  their  removal  a  condition  precedent  of  the  new  lease.  I 
am  clear  about  this.  But  I  cannot  remember  enough  of  the 
other  substance  of  the  letter  to  be  sure  of  my  Uncle  Francis's 
reasons  why  the  removal  of  these  celebrated  boxes  in  the  top 
attic  of  our  old  house  should  be  undertaken  by  my  father  rather 
than  by  himself.  I  have  an  impression  that  he  cited  some  super- 
subtle  legal  reason  why,  founded  on  the  law  relating  to  marriage 
settlements.  How  he  worked  this  out  I  have  now  not  the  dimmest 
idea,  but  I  suspect  that  his  reason  was  simple  enough.  He  was 
lazy  and  did  not  want  the  trouble  of  deciding  what  was  to  be  done 
with  the  goods.  My  grandmother,  who  was  over  ninety,  but  more 
truculent  than  ever,  had  put  her  foot  down,  and  flatly  forbidden 
that  they  should  be  brought  to  her  residence  at  Highbury.  His 

397 


398  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

own  chambers  in  the  Temple  were  out  of  the  question,  and  I 
rather  think  he  was  not  at  the  time  on  speaking  terms  with  my 
Uncle  Sam,  or  he  might  have  asked  him  to  provide  warehouse 
room  for  them. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  I  do  or  do  not  recollect  hearing  some- 
how that  my  Uncle  Sam  had  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  chemicals;  for  that  was  the  description  always  given  of  the 
contents  of  the  two  unopened  boxes — unopened,  I  mean,  on  that 
momentous  occasion  of  the  discovery  of  the  Heliconides.  I  con- 
jecture that  they  had  been  examined  since  then  sufficiently  to 
determine  the  nature  of  the  contents.  My  ascription  of  this 
refusal  to  Uncle  Sam  may,  however,  only  be  due  to  the  reaction 
on  my  mind  of  subsequent  events.  Shall  I,  I  wonder,  live  long 
enough  to  relate  them  ?  On  the  whole,  I  hope  not.  I  shrink  from 
the  telling  of  many  things  that  must  be  told,  if  I  carry  out  my 
scheme  of  writing  all  I  can  recollect.  For  I  would  very  gladly 
forget  many  of  them. 

"  What  makes  your  worthy  uncle  so  keen  that  I  should  see 
to  these  boxes  ? "  said  my  father.  "  He  seems  to  have  unpacked 
and  removed  the  one  or  two  things  of  any  value,  and  it  appears 
that  nothing  is  now  left  but  bottles  of  chemicals  with  no  label. 
Now  if  there  is  any  useless  possession  in  the  world,  it  surely  is 
a  chemical  without  a  label.  Why  can't  he  throw  the  contents  away, 
and  sell  the  bottles?" 

However,  my  Uncle  Francis  got  his  way,  whatever  it  was  that 
made  him  so  tenacious.  It  is  possible  that  one  thing  that  in- 
fluenced my  father  was  my  suggestion  that  at  any  rate  it  would 
give  Freeman  a  job.  I  advanced  it  not  so  much  because  I  loved 
Freeman,  as  because  he  had  always  seemed  to  me  part  and  parcel 
of  Mecklenburg  Square — a  kind  of  guardian  genius  almost.  To 
employ  any  one  else  on  a  job  at  "  the  Square  "  would  have  been 
playing  fast  and  loose  with  an  unwritten  obligation.  To  have 
disallowed  Freeman  in  this  connection  would,  I  am  sure,  have 
seemed  to  my  father  to  be  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  no  obligation  whatever  existed.  He  therefore  wrote  to  Free- 
man, enjoining  him  to  call  for  the  boxes  and  bring  them  to  The 
Retreat,  making  such  arrangement  about  a  cart  or  truck  as  he 
might  judge  best,  and  enclosing  a  letter  explaining  the  applica- 
tion to  Decimus  Hawkins,  Esq.,  easily  identified  in  the  Directory. 

Therefore  also  it  was  that,  some  five  or  six  days  later,  our  servant 
Raynes  appeared  spontaneously  to  my  stepmother  and  Gracey,  and 
addressing  the  latter  because  she  was  only  licking  a  postage- 
stamp,  whereas  Jemima  was  writing  a  letter,  said : — "  If  you 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  399 

please,  Miss,  The  Man  has  brought  the  boxes."  In  which  I  dis- 
cerned, when  Gracey  told  me  of  it  afterwards,  the  mystic  influence 
of  Mr.  Freeman's  atmosphere;  his  style,  title,  and  mission  hav- 
ing been  unquestioningly  accepted  from  him  by  Raynes,  who  had 
never  seen  him  before,  and  who,  by  the  by,  had  come  to  us  in 
Chelsea,  and  had  never  known  the  Square. 

"  I  said  they  were  to  go  in  Thomas's  loft  over  the  stable,"  said 
Gracey.  "  That  was  right,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  I.  "  Only  I'm  not  sure  the  Governor 
didn't  want  to  have  a  look  inside  them  and  see  if  there  was  noth- 
ing else." 

"  Oh  well ! "  said  Gracey.  "  Thomas  will  have  to  get  them  out 
again  when  they're  wanted."  Then  she  seemed  alive  to  some 
observance  due,  not  to  be  lightly  neglected  or  passed  by.  "  Hadn't 
you  better  see  The  Man?"  said  she.  "I  believe  he's  still  in  the 
kitchen."  So  he  was  obligate — so  to  speak — and  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  go  and  speak  with  him,  as  representing  the  Family. 

Now,  there  was  not  a  particle  of  reason  why  I  should  go  and 
confer  with  Mr.  Freeman.  But  Gracey  had  asked  the  question 
with  such  confidence  that  I  should  have  felt  it  almost  irreligious 
not  to  comply.  He  met  me  halfway,  owing  to  intimations  re- 
ceived of  my  approach.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing  whether 
he  was  the  worse,  or  better,  for  the  last  half-pint  hospitality  had 
yielded  him.  The  former,  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  his  antecedent 
condition. 

"Good  evening,  Freeman,"  said  I,  articulately;  no  slurring 
of  syllables  such  as  social  equality  would  have  countenanced! 
"  You've  brought  the  boxes  ?  " 

"  Yes — 'ere !  I  was  told  to  fetch  'em  'ere,  and  'ere  I  fetched 
'em.  You  can  count  'em  yourself.  Or  any  man."  He  appeared 
to  be  needlessly  on  his  guard  against  some  insidious  attack,  and 
to  suspect  me  of  being  a  scout. 

"  I  expect  they're  all  right,"  said  I,  groundlessly.  "  Did  you 
explain  to  ....  the  Gentleman  at  the  House?"  For  I  had 
forgotten  the  name  of  Hawkins,  and  it  was  not  essential. 

"  I  made  a  p'int.  I  says  to  him,  allow  me  to  'and  you  this  here 
letter,  I  says.  Which  will  acquaint  you.  And  I  'ands  him  the 
Master's  letter,  wrote  with  his  own  'ands." 

"And  he  read  it?     And  what  then?" 

Mr.  Freeman  seemed  still  obsessed  with  that  idea  that  I  wished 
to  outflank  him,  and  it  was  not  without  triumph  that  he  re- 
sponded : — "  Nothin'  then !  " 

"What  did  he  say?     He  must  have  said  something!" 


400  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Never  said  nothin'  to  me !  " 

I  saw  an  opening.  "  He  said  something  to  somebody.  Whom 
did  he  say  it  to  ? " 

"  Now  you're  a-gettin'  at  it,  Master  Eustace.  He  says  to  Miss 
Sylvear,  who  was  reading  of  a  volume  aloud  where  I  was  shown 
in,  being  allowed  upstairs  like  once  in  a  way,  and  not  being  fre- 
quent above  the  basement,  comin'  in  by  the  airey  steps  of  morn- 
ings. .  ."  He  felt  about  in  vain  for  the  idea  he  had  deserted. 

"  Well — she  was  reading  a  book.    What  did  he  say  to  her  ? " 

"  Right  you  are,  Master  Eustace !  Peroozin'  of  it  through  aloud, 
as  they  say.  Regarding  of  what  he  says  to  her : — '  You'll  excuse 
me,  my  dear  Sylvear,'  he  says,  that  bein'  his  pecooliar  way  of 
haxentuating  of  her,  bein'  he's  one  of  these  here  mealy-mouthed 
characters.  '  Would  you  oblige  me  by  listening  to  this  here  let- 
ter ? '  And  she  says : — '  Since  you  wish  it,  certainly,'  she  says, 
and  shuts  in  the  paper-knife,  for  to  keep  the  place." 

"  And  then  he  read  the  letter,  and  said  you  might  take  the 
boxes.  Go  ahead !  "  For  I  wanted  to  be  washing  up  for  dinner. 

But  Mr.  Freeman's  condition  and  method  forbade  hurry.  "  Ask- 
in'  your  pardon,  Master  Eustace,  he  said  no  such  a  thing.  What 
he  did  say  was — this  here  ree-quired  consideration.  Then  her  and 
him  they  had  it  up  and  down,  and  the  lady  she  won't  have  chim- 
icals  in  boxes  carried  downstairs  over  her  carpets,  and  very  likely 
destroy  the  wall-papers  as  well." 

"  Did  the  Governor  say  anything  to  these  parties  about  chem- 
icals?" I  asked  because  I  had  heard  very  little  about  chemicals, 
and  did  not  know  where  the  idea  came  from.  I  may  have  pro- 
nounced the  first  syllable  too  clearly,  for  Mr.  Freeman  seemed 
to  have  heard  the  word  for  the  first  time,  and  to  be  unaware 
that  he  had  just  uttered  it  himself. 

"  Chemicals ! "  said  he.  "  I  never  heard  no  mention  of  any 
such.  Her  word  were  kimmy  culls,  spoke  plain,  and  she  wouldn't 
have  any  such  acrost  her  stair-carpets,  not  if  she  knowed  it.  Then 
her  brother — which  he  is — and  no  use  his  denyin'  of  it — he  says, 
meek  and  oily,  which  is  his  way,  there  ain't  no  way  down  from 
the  articks  only  just  the  staircase,  unless  she  means  by  climin' 
down  a  ladder,  outside.  Then  does  he  take  her  for  a  fool,  she 
says,  seein'  one  ladder  wouldn't  above  half  reach  up,  and  would 
have  to  be  double  the  length?  Likewise  she  says,  if  the  Port 
Admiral  was  tryin'  explosives,  who  could  say  they  might  not 
fall  on  the  Public's  head,  and  explode  spontaneous,  and  who  would 
be  held  responsible?  So  I  says  I'd  go  and  attend  to  my  boots, 
the  whilst  they  come  to  an  understanding  .  .  .  ." 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  401 

"  Well — the  boxes  are  here  now  .    .    .    !  " 

"  Ho — yes !  They're  here  now  fast  enough,  now  I've  got  'em 
here.  Some  mightn't  have.  Only  Miss  Silver  Ear  she  see  to  old 
newspapers  being  laid  all  down  the  staircase,  she's  that  nice  and 
partic'lar  over  the  'ousehold.  ..."  Mr.  Freeman's  clearer  speech, 
unencumbered  by  obligation  to  report  accurately,  defined  the  lady's 
name.  I  cut  his  story  short,  seeing  that  Raynes  was  ringing  an 
admonitory  bell  just  close  to  my  head,  and  went  to  get  ready  for 
dinner.  I  heard  him  intercept  my  father,  who  was  just  coming 
in,  from  whom  he  probably  exacted  a  tribute. 

I  asked  my  father  that  evening  what  Freeman  had  meant  by 
the  explosives,  and  he  said  it  must  have  been  a  fancy  of  my  Uncle 
Francis,  because  Helen  had  heard  something  of  the  sort  at  High- 
bury. I  should  mention  that  my  stepmother  never  lost  touch  with 
my  grandmother  and  uncles,  paying  intermittent  visits  which 
remained  unreturned,  except  indeed  by  my  Uncle  Sam,  who  had 
apologized  himself  out  of  his  family's  condemnation  of  my  father, 
and  maintained  a  position  towards  The  Retreat  compounded  of 
Christian  Forgiveness  as  a  lubricant  to  social  intercourse,  admira- 
tion for  Jemima  as  a  fine  woman,  and  I  think  some  genuine  affec- 
tion for  Gracey.  Now  my  stepmother  had  conversed  on  the  sub- 
ject of  these  boxes  with.  Uncle  Francis  and  his  truculent  mamma; 
so,  naturally,  my  father  referred  to  her  about  the  meaning  of  The 
Man's  obscure  allusion  to  explosives.  We  were  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  the  end  of  the  day  when  he  did  so — he  and  I  beginning 
a  game  of  Chess ;  she  and  Gracey  busy  over  Patience. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  she,  "  and  you've  forgotten.  The  old  Ad- 
miral was  supposed  to  be  an  authority  on  explosives,  and  I  believe 
he  was  going  to  make  a  great  discovery,  when  he  died.  They 
said  so.  And  Mr.  Francis  says  those  bottles  are  full  of  his  inven- 
tion, but  they  are  all  safe  as  long  as  no  one  touches  them." 

"  Just  like  Francis !  "  said  my  father.  "  Why — the  bottles  are 
full  of  a  sort  of  treacley  stuff.  Who  ever  heard  of  explosive 
treacle?  However,  nobody  means  to  touch  them  ...  I  can 
castle — it's  not  across  a  check."  The  explosives  lapsed. 

A  crisis  was  afoot  in  the  card  game  also.  "  No — it's  a  dead- 
lock. Begin  another!"  said  the  official  player.  But  the  other 
said : — "  No — look  here !  Queen  on  King,  Knave  on  Queen,  ten 
on  Knave,  nine  on  ten,  eight  on  nine  ..."  and  so  on.  And 
as  players  of  Patience  are  always  carried  away  by  a  visible  climax 
ahead,  the  explosives  were  forgotten,  and  remained  forgotten  for 
some  years  to  come.  At  least,  I  remember  no  further  mention 
of  them. 


402  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  think  a  discussion  as  to  whether  a  King  can  castle  across 
a  square  that  has  been  under  a  check,  and  is  now  free,  may  have 
helped  the  oblivion.  The  King  can,  of  course.  A  check  does  not 
linger  like  magnetism  in  steel.  But  I  should  have  been  so  very 
glad  that  my  father  should  have  been  unable  to  castle,  in  that 
game,  that  I  was  strongly  biassed  towards  an  honest  belief  that 
it  was  at  least  an  open  question.  I  cannot  account  to  my  Self — 
who  reproaches  me  with  forgetfulness  for  my  ability  to  recall  that 
position  on  the  board,  and  my  uncertainty  as  to  how  the  explo- 
sives were  lost  sight  of.  But  what  can  I  do?  This  is  a  record 
of  what  I  do  remember,  not  what  I  ought  to  remember. 

The  Student  of  Human  Nature  really  ought  to  turn  his  atten- 
tion to  that  curious  subject,  Matrimony.  As  I  understand,  he 
has  been  so  busy  with  Love  and  Infidelity — especially  the  latter — 
that  he  has  postponed  the  investigation  of  the  effects  of  mere 
unqualified  marriage,  apart  from  complication  of  personal  affec- 
tion. I  mean  marriage  considered  as  harness — the  subjugation 
of  a  pair,  irrespective  of  their  desire  to  submit  to  it,  or  their 
ability  to  endure  it. 

Fully  to  grasp  the  nature  of  the  questions  raised,  in  the  absence 
of  this  Student — who  would  probably  be  of  no  service,  if  present — 
we  have  to  constrain  the  Actual  within  the  limits  of  a  hypothesis. 
First  we  have  to  conceive  of  a  couple  absolutely  indifferent  to 
one  another,  free  from  any  bias  whatever,  whether  of  Love  or 
Hatred.  You  will  say — if  you  ever  exist,  which  I  doubt — that 
this  is  an  impossible  hypothesis.  I  shall  reply  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  an  impossible  hypothesis.  The  supposition  that  a 
hypothesis  is  possible  is  an  integral  factor  of  its  existence.  There- 
fore the  phrase  "impossible  hypothesis"  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms. 

But  after  all,  does  this  hypothesis  strain  possibility  so  seri- 
ously? Look  at  the  Whittakers,  whom  Varnish  had  lived  with 
a  many  years  before  ever  she  come  across  my  pa  and  ma.  She 
always  introduced  them  into  conversation  thus,  and  developed  their 
individualities  later.  Mr.  Whittaker  rose  early  and  caught  the 
'bus.  He  was  that  took  up  with  business  that  he  was  always 
home  late — not  once,  but  always !  And,  Sundays,  you  would  hardly 
believe  it,  but  he  always  went  to  his  mother's-  at  Rickmans- 
worth.  If  Mr.  Whittaker  had  any  other  characteristic  whatever, 
Varnish  remained  reticent  about  it;  hence  it  continued  unknown, 
she  being  the  only  informant.  He  never  was  presented  to  me 
otherwise  than  as  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Whittaker,  pure  and  simple; 


THE  NAREATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  403 

his  existence  and  its  whereabouts  and  whenabouts  being  the  only 
facts  communicated.  Mrs.  Whittaker,  on  the  other  hand,  welcomed 
the  Spartan  simplicity  of  her  lot,  and  saw  to  the  housekeeping.  She 
had  enough  to  do  ordering  dinner,  and  keeping  an  eye  on  things,  to 
be  able  to  dispense  with  human  intercourse;  and  she  had  never 
held  with  men  in  the  house,  so  that  the  necessity  for  Mr.  Whit- 
taker's  presence  in  the  City  did  not  distress  her.  When  he  did 
return  home  to  the  banquet,  whose  preparation  had  absorbed  her 
day,  he  just  swallowed  it  down  and  went  to  sleep  in  his  armchair, 
and  his  wife  did  not  complain;  besides,  she  had  to  see  the  cook. 

That  really  contains  all  the  information  Varnish  had  to  give 
about  her  former  Master  and  Mistress,  and  I  think  it  warrants 
me  in  speculating  011  the  existence  of  a  married  couple,  absolutely 
unbiassed  by  either  Love  or  Hatred,  and  as  such  presenting  a 
proper  subject  for  the  Student  of  Human  Nature,  if  he  can 
persuade  himself  for  awhile  to  forego  the  luxury  of  solving  rec- 
ognized problems,  -which  do  not  arise  until  one  of  the  subjects 
conceives  an  unholy — or  holy — passion  for  somebody  else.  What 
would  he  make  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whittaker;  supposing  that  addi- 
tional information  had  confirmed  the  impression  I  had  from  Var- 
nish's description  of  them? 

But  really  these  amiable  and  respectable  persons  have  no  place 
in  a  record  of  my  recollections,  unless  indeed  it  is  that  the  mar- 
ried couple  that  set  me  off  thinking  about  them  was  my  father 
and  stepmother.  This  does  not  the  least  mean  that  the  cases  were 
alike.  If  it  had  been  the  other  way  round — if  the  Whittakers 
had  made  me  think  of  them — I  grant  that  there  might  have  been 
a  similarity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  marked  dissimilarity 
in  their  case  that  was  foremost  in  my  mind  when  I  caught  myself 
recalling  the  amusement  I  gave  Gracey  by  a  grotesque  sketch  I 
made  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whittaker,  as  imagined  from  Varnish's 
account  of  them.  I  had  said  to  myself: — "  Suppose  the  Governor 
had  been  like  that,  I  wonder  how  Jemima  would  have  stood  it !  " 

This  and  similar  problems  about  marriage,  always  suggested 
by  the  permanent  puzzle  of  my  father  and  his  second  wife,  very 
often  exercised  my  speculative  powers  in  those  days.  But  I  kept 
them  to  myself,  not  even  taking  Gracey  into  my  confidence.  Per- 
haps her  never  seeking  it  influenced  me.  It  may  be  that  she 
always  retained  a  girl's  view  of  the  constitutional  ignorance  of 
a  boy  to  understand  the  private  affairs  of  the  heart,  an  ignorance 
which  often  lives  till  the  coming  misinterpretations  of  Manhood 
warp  and  distort  every  sacred  truth.  Most  girls  are  like  that. 
They  know  all  about  it,  all  along.  They  have  a  singular  faculty 


404  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

for  combining  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  important  points  of 
the  subject  with  an  almost  complete  ignorance  of  the  secondary 
ones.  In  this  connection  the  views  of  Mrs.  John  Anderson  claim 
consideration. 

I  most  earnestly  hope  now  that  my  father  never  felt  handi- 
capped by  the  presence  of  his  children  in  his  demeanour  towards 
his  second  wife.  It  was  certainly  not  demonstrative.  He,  however, 
fell  far  short  of  what  may  be  called  the  cultivated  indifference 
of  Mr.  Whittaker  as  described  by  Varnish.  I  cannot  assign  to 
the  image  I  retain  of  that  gentleman  any  such  solicitude  about  the 
sleepless  nights  of  Mrs.  Whittaker,  if  any,  as  my  fathers  about 
my  stepmother's.  It  was  so  permanent  and  real  a  trouble  to  him 
that  I  could  always  tell  by  his  appearance  at  breakfast  whether 
Morpheus  and  Jemima  had  hit  it  off.  Not  that  her  insomnia 
disturbed  his  night's  rest.  He  slept  through  it  and  got  his  infor- 
mation afterwards. 

He  often  talked  to  me  of  this  plague  when  we  sat  and  chatted 
over  our  experiences  of  the  day,  after  dinner  in  the  library.  It 
was,  he  said,  a  most  grievous  affliction ;  and  it  was  very  hard  that 
it  should  visit  one  pillow-  so  persistently.  Why  could  he  not  have 
his  share  of  it,  instead  of  sleeping  like  an  Ephesian?  When  he 
said  this  in  the  hearing  of  the  sufferer,  she  would  say,  "  Oh, 
heavens,  no!  At  any  rate,  not  that!"  so  emphatically,  that  I  once 
gave  way  to  wonder  at  her  manner,  in  my  father's  presence,  loud 
enough  for  him  to  overhear.  "  Why  does  your  stepmother  pitch 
it  so  strong?"  said  he,  echoing  my  words.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you. 
She  says  she  talks  in  her  sleep,  and  doesn't  want  me  to  know  all 
her  secrets.  I  limit  myself  strictly  to  snoring,  I  believe — never 
utter  a  word,  with  a  meaning  or  without!" 

"I  know  about  that,"  said  Gracey.  "At  the  Square.  Bert 
said  Miss  Ev  ...  I  mean  Aunt  Helen " 

"  Stick  to  Miss  Evans,  Chick !  "  said  my  father.  "  She  was  Miss 
Evans  in  those  days.  Quite  correct." 

"  Well,  then,  Bert  said  Miss  Evans  used  to  talk  in  her  sleep, 
and  Bert  knew  if  any  one  did." 

"Very  good  then — there  we  are!  If  Miss  Evans  talked  in  her 
sleep,  we  may  be  pretty  sure  Mrs.  Pascoe  does.  But  Mr.  Pascoe 
doesn't  hear  her,  I'll  answer  for  that." 

"  Bert  used  to  lie  awake,"  said  I,  "  like  five-and-twenty  weasels. 
I  know,  because  I  used  to  hear  them  quarrelling  about  it,  next 
day." 

My  father  said  with  gravity : — "  Are  you^ure  you  got  the  num- 
ber right?" 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  405 

I  explained  that  the  analogy  of  the  weasels  was  not  to  be  taken 
au  pied  de  la  lettre,  being  merely  my  rot.  One  weasel  was  enough, 
and  would  be  just  as  wide  awake  as  a  regiment.  But  I  could 
cite  instances  of  Bert  and  Jemima  becoming  warm  in  discussion 
of  expressions  said  to  have  been  used  by  the  latter  during  sleep — 
in  fact,  of  their  going  at  it  hammer  and  tongs  all  the  morning. 
The  particular  occurrence  that  came  readiest  to  hand  was  once 
when  Miss  Evans  denied  as  too  absurdly  impossible  that  she  had 
said,  "Not  guilty,  my  Lord!"  several  times,  being  sound  asleep; 
on  the  ground  that  at  the  moment  of  waking,  a  moment  later, 
she  had  come  out  of  a  dream  of  hot-cross  buns,  which  she  had 
to  wash  her  hands  with  instead  of  Windsor  soap.  "  I  remember 
that,"  said  I,  "and  lots  of  things  like  it;  and  Aunt  Helen  always 
stuck  to  it,  that  what  one  talked  in  one's  sleep  must  work  in  one's 
dreams,  and  Bert  was  inventing." 

The  reason  I  called  her  Aunt  Helen  was  that  I  was  not  cer- 
tain she  would  not  hear.  For  she  was  on  the  sofa,  reputed  asleep 
in  consequence  of  her  last  night's  vigil,  and  we  were  speaking 
low  not  to  disturb  her. 

Gracey  recollected  the  absurd  dream  of  the  soap,  but  could  not 
remember  anything  about  "  Not  guilty,  my  Lord !  "  My  father 
merely  said : — "  Doesn't  sound  very  likely,  but  dreams  are  rum 
things."  I  was  going  to  narrate  other  instances  of  sleep-speech 
recorded  by  my  sister  Roberta  of  the  then  Miss  Evans,  when  that 
lady  started  up  on  the  sofa  as  one  who  wakes  suddenly,  crying  out, 
and  saying: — "Yes.  What?  Why  did  you  wake  me?"  quite 
unreasonably.  She  anticipated  something  my  father  was  going 
to  say,  with: — "No!  I  am  not  spoiling  my  night's  rest.  I  could 
sleep  for  a  week  after  last  night." 

I  think  that,  with  a  little  persuasion  from  my  father,  she  said 
good-night,  and  retired,  to  inaugurate  that  week's  sleep,  I  sup- 
pose. I  recollect  no  further,  except  that  my  father  was  very  much 
inquiete  about  Jemima,  saying  he  wished  she  would  see  Sir  This- 
this,  or  Sir  That-t'ther  about  this  insomnia.  It  was  wearing  her 
out. 

I  feel  sure  that  Mr.  Whittaker,  who  was  the  cause  of  my  recol- 
lection of  this  incident,  would  never  have  shown  such  a  solicitude 
about  /its  wife.  In  fact,  the  only  light  that  Varnish  ever  threw 
upon  his  character  in  this  connection  goes  all  the  other  way.  He 
was  represented,  when  Mrs.  Whittaker  mentioned  that  she  felt  all 
bones — not  a  symptom  to  be  trifled  with,  surely! — as  awakening 
for  one  moment  from  his  after-dinner  nap,  to  say: — "Take  a 
dose!  "  Which  appeared  to  me  unsympathetic,  though  it  was  cited 


406  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

as  an  example  of  his  sterling  commonsense,  and  practical  way 
of  dealing  with  the  difficulties  of  Life. 

But  not  on  this  occasion.  Varnish's  references  to  Mr.  Whit- 
taker  were  earlier — were  traditional,  in  fact,  at  the  time.  We 
did,  nevertheless,  converse  about  Jemima's  sleeplessness,  especially 
in  relation  to  the  worry — or  werry,  which  I  suppose  is  the  same 
thing — that  it  caused  my  father.  This  writing  about  it  brings 
back  to  me  that  I  described  this  incident  to  her,  and  that  she 
did  not  show  the  commiseration  that  I  should  have  expected.  In 
fact,  she  said,  rather  abruptly : — "  She  only  has  herself  to  blame 
for  it." 

Now,  Varnish  knew  that  Jemima  and  I  had,  as  I  expressed  it, 
"  made  it  up  " — without  particularizing  what  it  was  that  was  made 
up — and  that  her  own  Christian  forgiveness  had  hung  fire.  At 
least,  that  is  how  I  accounted  for  her  seeming  to  speak  to  herself 
rather  than  to  me  when  she  said  this.  I  tried  to  say  a  word  in 
extenuation  of  Jemima,  with  whom  I  was  by  this  time  on  very 
good  terms.  "  Don't  be  so  crusty,  Varnish  dear,"  said  I.  "  I'll  be 

hanged  if  I  can  see  how  Jemima's  to  blame,  any  more  than " 

At  which  point  I  suddenly  felt  that  what  my  speech  was  on  the 
way  to  was  not  a  thing  to  speak  in  cold  blood — or  warm,  for  that 
matter. 

But  Varnish  would  not  let  me  off.  "Any  more  than  who?" 
said  she. 

I  could  have  backed  out,  I  suppose.  But  it  would  have  been 
sheer  poltroonery.  So  I  said: — "Well,  then,  the  Governor,  if  you 
will  have  it !  " 

"Oh,  Master  Jackey,  your  pa!"  The  words  were  few,  but  if 
Varnish  had  talked  like  the  people  in  the  end-chapters  of  novels, 
where  the  plots  are  explained,  she  could  not  have  said  more.  I 
retracted  everything,  not  without  using  the  golden  bridge  of  a 
Pickwickian  sense,  or  some  equivalent  thereof.  Varnish,  how- 
ever, readily  forgave.  "  You  took  me  wrong,  Master  Jackey,"  she 
said,  "  to  fancy  I  could  blame  your  pa."  She  was  so  contrite  and 
hurt  that  she  felt  about — so  T  thought — for  some  excuse  for  a  com- 
pensating leniency  to  her  old  bete  noire.  "  And  for  your  stepmar, 
my  dear,  we  must  place  our  hopes,  and  rely.  If  I'm  wrong,  I'm 
wrong.  Never  you  mind  nothing  I  say.  Such  things  wasn't  meant 
for  boys." 

I  cannot  remember  any  talk  later  than  this  one  with  Varnish, 
into  which  Jemima  entered  as  a  culprit  on  account  of  her  mar- 
ringp  with  my  father.  So  I  hope  dear  old  Varnish  felt  more  len- 
iently towards  her  before  she  died. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  407 

As  for  my  stepmother  herself,  I  really  have  very  little  fault  to 
find  with  her — indeed,  the  only  definite  indictment  I  can  bring 
against  her  is  that  she  obdurately  refused  to  see  either  Sir  This- 
this  or  Sir  That-t'other,  or  to  take  any  reasonable  measures 
against  her  insomnia.  If  she  had  ever  followed  any  advice  at 
all,  and  given  any  treatment  a  fair  trial,  I  can  understand  that 
she  might  have  rejected  it  on  its  merits.  But  to  combine  rebel- 
lion against  all  experience  with  reckless  and  dangerous  sporadic 
remedies,  recommended  by  quack  advertisements  and  offered  for 
sale  by  any  and  every  apothecary — this  did  seem  to  me  at  the  time, 
and  does  still,  a  most  ill-judged  and  in  a  certain  sense  selfish  prac- 
tice. It  implied  indifference  to  a  pain  and  discomfort  she  occa- 
sioned my  father,  to  which  she  may  have  been  honestly  blind,  of 
course.  I  don't  believe  she  was.  She  was  dishonestly  blind,  man- 
aged to  shut  her  eyes  to  it — dishonestly  deaf,  for  both  Gracey 
and  I  urged  upon  her  that  even  if  medical  attention  could  do 
her  no  good,  it  would  be  an  immense  relief  to  her  husband's  mind 
to  know  that  the  best  had  been  done  that  was  to  be  found  for 
her.  I  do  not  feel  severely  censorious  about  her  conduct  now, 
having  since  then  had  fifty  years  of  opportunity  to  observe  how 
rarely  the  sufferer  puts  the  mind  of  bystanders  at  ease  by  accept- 
ing medical  experience,  his  own  case  being  always  unlike  previous 
cases.  Still,  I  am  surprised  that  she  should  have  made  no  con- 
cession to  my  father's  anxiety.  She  might  at  least  have  inter- 
viewed ^Esculapius,  even  if  she  threw  his  medicines  away. 

As  to  those  panaceas  which  Jemima  always  bought  a  trial  sam- 
ple of  whenever  she  saw  a  new  label  in  a  Chemist's  and  Druggist's, 
on  the  counter  with  the  toothbrushes  and  nail-scissors.  Their 
name  was  Legion,  and  their  bottles  were  no  use  for  anything  but 
their  First  Love — if  one  may  borrow  that  simile  to  indicate  their 
first  contents,  described  on  undetachable  labels  or  with  ineradi- 
cable enamels;  or  embossed  upon  the  glass,  and  perfectly  blatant 
about  the  Nemesis  in  store  for  their  imitators.  But  I  believe 
they  were  only  encouragements  to  imagination,  and  perfectly  in- 
operative and  harmless,  though  they  were  usually  thirteen-pence- 
half penny.  For  which  last  fact  I  can  only  say  God  forgive  the 
patentees  and  the  Patent  Office. 

There  were  some,  however,  which  were  not  harmless,  but  deadly; 
notably,  Formodyne,  or  Dynoform — I  forget  which,  and  I  am 
even  uncertain  about  both.  Either  will  do,  for  now — say  For- 
modyne. The  fiendish  deep  blue  bottls,  with  embossed  letters  and 
a  poison  label,  must  have  made  its  first  appearance  at  The  Retreat 
about  this  time.  For  I  remember  my  father  examining  it  with 


408  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

suspicious  eyes,  saying: — "  What's  this  new  abomination,  Helen?  I 
can't  have  you  taking  stuff  in  blue  bottles,  with  '  Poison  '  on  them." 
And  my  stepmother  replying : — "  That  stuff  ?  Oh — 1  shan't  take 
that!  I  only  bought  it  because  I  had  to  buy  something,  when 
Mr.  Modicum  had  been  so  obliging  about  the  cat.  7  shan't  take 
it.  Give  it  to  me  and  I'll  have  it  thrown  away."  My  father 
weakly  surrendered  it.  But  he  had  not  seen  the  last  of  it. 

Everything  brings  something  else  back!  I  had  quite  forgotten 
that  cat  and  Mr.  Modicum  the  Apothecary,  who  so  obligingly 
poisoned  it  for  our  Cook,  who  objected  to  giving  a  shilling  to 
The  Dust  to  take  it  away,  on  Humanitarian  grounds;  as  they — 
or  it — would  have  thrown  it  in  the  rirer,  tied  to  a  brickbat. 
Whereas  Mr.  Modicum  guaranteed  that  his  poison  would  give  no 
pain  at  all,  and  undertook  to  poison  it  himself.  No  one  knew 
anything  about  Physiological  Laboratories  in  those  days,  so  no 
one  doubted  Mr.  Modicum's  intention  to  poison  this  cat.  How- 
ever, he  was  as  good  as  his  word  in  one  particular,  I  doubt  not. 
That  cat's  pain  was  not  due  to  that  poison. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  FIND  myself  thinking  very  little  as  I  write  this  of  the  knack, 
or  faculty,  which  during  my  active  life  of  manhood  supplied  me 
with  an  occupation  and  the  sinews  of  War.  Probably  this  is 
because  I  still  think  of  caricature  as  a  thing  quite  outside  Art; 
and  even  now  account  the  latter  a  sacred  Cult,  the  Priesthood  of 
which  is  only  open  to  a  privileged  few.  That  view  was  the  ac- 
cepted correctitude  in  my  time;  and  still  lives,  I  believe,  among 
a  select  circle  of  devotees,  who  regard  photography  much  as  a 
French  Royalist  regards  Republicanism — an  ephemeral  fancy,  of 
a  rather  long  day ! 

Even  now,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  that  the  camera  has 
driven  a  coach-and-six  through  any  Art  that  is  not  purely  optical. 
I  can  see  that  the  end  has  come  of  a  lucrative  profession — the 
production  of  pictures  absolutely  without  invention — simply  be- 
cause snapshots  are  better.  But  I  cherish  a  hope  that  there  is 
still  a  day  to  come  for  the  Artist  who  has  something  to  say,  in 
spite  of  my  old  friend  'Opkins's  condemnation  of  what  he  called 
littery  Art.  He  learned  this  phrase  very  many  years  after  the 
date  I  am  writing  of,  and  his  use  of  it  made  me  feel  that  the 
group  called  the  Fates  in  the  Parthenon  Sculptures,  that  were 
in  front  of  us  at  the  moment,  had  had  its  day,  and  might  go.  But 
this  passed,  and  Phidias  lived  again  as  soon  as  Time  had  helped 
me  to  forget  'Opkins.  This,  however,  has  little  or  nothing  to  do 
with  the  point  I  have  wandered  from. 

Caricature,  to  wit.  I  cannot  say  exactly  when  I  found  out  this 
knack,  or  faculty.  I  only  know  that  I  never  ranked  it  as  Art. 
Art  was  when  you  had  a  moddle.  'Opkins  said  so.  I  may,  or 
may  not,  have  left  behind  in  these  miscellanea  a  statement  that 
T  made  an  imaginary  sketch,  when  my  sister  Ellen's  little  eldest, 
Polycarp — my  father  christened  him  Polly  Tittlebat  afterwards — 
inaugurated  the  long  perspective  of  clerical  babies  which  made 
their  appearance  later,  one  at  a  time.  Anyhow,  I  did  make  such 
a  sketch,  with  ink  and  a  crowquill;  and  very  funny  it  was,  though 
I  say  it  that  shouldn't!  • 

'Opkins's  verdict  was  confirmed,  for  only  two  views  were  ex- 

409 


410  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

pressed  about  it;  one,  that  the  viewster  hoped  I  should  not  be  led 
away  from  the  serious  study  of  Art  by  this  dangerous  and  seduc- 
tive rival;  the  other,  seeking  rather  to  know  why  I  continued  to 
kneel  at  the  feet  of  the  former,  when  the  latter  seemed  so  well- 
disposed  towards  taking  me  to  her  bosom.  The  question  of  which 
charmer  was  to  enchain  me  must  have  been  raised  for  the  first 
time  on  the  occasion  of  this  sketch,  as  I  remember  very  clearly 
Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  rerdict  on  the  subject.  I  can  see  her  recep- 
tion of  the  sketch — a  condescension  as  towards  the  trivial  side  of 
Art;  an  indulgence  of  human  weakness.  I  am  aware  that  she 
takes  her  seat  on  our  sofa  to  examine  the  drawing,  tendered  for 
her  inspection  as  a  portrait  of  the  Mona  branch  of  our  family. 
'*  And  has  our  Young  Artist — our  coming  Correggio — actually 
contrived  to  portray  his  sister  and  her  truly  sacerdotal  husband 
from  Memory?  That  is,  indeed,  marvellous.  .  .  .  No,  dear  Mrs. 
Pascoe — NOW  WAIT! — and  let  me  get  out  my  eyes,  which  have 
slipped  to  the  bottom  of  the  bag!  I — must — look — at — this  .  .  . 
deliberately.  Who  can  say  that  Our  Young  Artist  is  not  a  Second 
Reynolds  ? "  She  recovered  a  wandering  pince-nez,  and  devoted 
her  soul  to  inspection. 

I  felt  rather  deceptious,  and  that  it  was  inhospitable  to  hoax 
one's  visitors — even  Walkey,  whom  I  hated!  Indeed,  I  felt  a 
sort  of  relief  when  the  good  lady  signalized  the  advent  of  illumi- 
nation— not  with  a  war-whoop  certainly,  but  with  some  sort  of 
whoop;  say  a  peace-whoop  fraught  with  amazement,  protest,  and 
a  keen  appreciation  of  humour.  I  feel  that  if  I  were  German,  I 
could  tell  my  fellow  Teutons  in  one  word. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh-oh-h-h-h-h— oh!"  The  last  a  short,  com- 
pacted protest-snap.  "  No-no,  don't  take  it  away.  I  must  see 
every  line.  And  did  Correggio  really  unbend  to  do  this?  Oh, 
but  it's  exactly  like  the  Reverend  Gentleman." 

I  remarked,  appeased  by  flattery,  that  I  was  satisfied  with  my 
own  portrayal  of  the  Archbishop's  umbrella.  It  wasn't  half  bad. 
Gracey  said  it  was  perfectly  lovely. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  could  not  see,  off-hand,  who  was  referred 
to.  "The  Archbishop?"  said  she.  "Oh — Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, of  course!  My  dear! — young  men  will  say  anything.  Abso- 
lutely anything.  And  that — that! — is  your  sweet,  your  lovely 
sister  Ellen.  My  Elaine!  Oh,  brothers,  brothers!  And  the  long 
perspective  of  little  children!"  She  melted  away  in  a  paroxysm 
of  appreciation. 

Some  insight  had  to  be  shown,  in  confidence  with  Jemima,  over 
the  heads  of  us  juveniles,  into  the  technical  absurdity  of  so  huge 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  411 

a  family.  That  done,  Mrs.  Walkinshaw  struck  a  higher  note. 
"  But,  after  all,"  said  she,  "  this  is  trifling."  She  went  on  to 
recall  the  fact  that  even  the  most  admirable  fooling  should  not  be 
our  Life-Object.  I  borrow  her  expression.  Nevertheless,  as  long 
as  I  kept  before  me  the  Image  of  True  Art,  as  a  Beacon,  I  might 
safely  gratify  the  sense  of  humour  which  evidently,  in  my  case, 
welled  from  every  pore.  In  fact,  to  fail  in  doing  so  would  be  to 
fly  in  the  face  of  the  manifest  intentions  of  the  Almighty,  and 
might  get  me  into  difficulties  in  high  quarters. 

I  don't  know  whether  this  homily  of  Walker's  had  any  influence 
with  me.  It  may  have  acted  in  support  of  a  conviction  that  I  had, 
that  I  owed  it  to  my  father  to  prove  that  he  had  not  done  unwisely 
in  allowing  me  to  adopt  the  Image  of  True  Art  as  a  beacon.  It 
would  never  do  to  turn  aside  to  follow  this  Jack-o'-Lantern's  farth- 
ing rushlight;  and  neglect  the  cult  of  real  Art,  with  moddles. 
The  collective  wisdom  of  all  my  advisers  in  my  family  agreed 
on  this  verdict,  and  I  kept  my  eyes  dutifully  on  the  aforementioned 
Beacon,  and  blundered  on  through  the  mire  of  Education;  never, 
so  far  as  I  can  recollect,  receiving  an  intelligible  instruction  on 
any  point. 

My  fellow-students  at  the  Academy  did  not  support  my  family's 
decision,  with  the  exception  of  'Opkins.  "  The  leadin'  idear  of 
Art,"  said  he,  "  is  seriousness,  and  the  'ole  duty  of  the  Student  is 
to  keep  that  end  in  voo,  and  foller  up.  The  Student  of  Art 
who  loses  sight  of  his  Mission  may  every  bit  as  well  shut  up. 
Cuttin'  jokes  is  not  the  Mission  of  the  Artist."  It  is  fair  to 
say  that  I  did  not  hear  this  myself.  It  was  repeated  to  me  by  a 
reprobate  of  the  name  of  Bartholomew  whose  nature  was  em- 
phatically not  serious.  He  was,  in  fact,  given  up  to  dramatic 
recitations  and  songs,  which  were  considered  equivocal,  or  un- 
equivocal, according  to  the  straitness  of  the  considerant's  lacing 
— an  expression  which  impresses  me  with  the  liberty  the  unread 
writer  enjoys.  He  reported  to  me  the  above  reflections  of  'Opkins. 
and  I  straightway  drew  a  portrait  of  'Opkins  uttering  them.  I 
suspect  that  it  was  very  funny  indeed,  by  the  appreciation  it  re- 
ceived when  passed  from  hand  to  hand  for  inspection. 

"  I  should  chuck  painting,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Bartholomew, 
"  and  go  in  for  black-and-white."  And  the  student  public  expressed 
approval,  saying  that  there  were  too  many  Artists  by  a  long  chalk 
— meaning  thereby,  real  Artists,  with  studios.  Nowadays  things 
are  changed,  about  a  fortieth  part  of  the  present  Christian  Era 
having  elapsed  unobserved  since  then.  That  chalk  has  doubled, 
trebled,  quadrupled  its  length;  and  a  shorter  chalk — but  one  long 


412  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

enough  in  all  conscience — is  metaphorically  justified  to  express  the 
superfluity  of  unreal  Artists  without  Studios;  Artists  who  can 
do  Art  in  a  common  room,  one  understands.  And  all  through  the 
last  thirty  years  or  so  of  this  epoch,  Art  Schools  have  germinated 
and  Art  teachers  have  multiplied,  Art  Educators  fostered  by  Art 
Education,  each  one  the  fruitful  instructor  of  a  hundred  more, 
until  no  house  is  complete  without  its  Studio.  But  nobody  wants 
pictures. 

Just  about  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing  an  Artist  of  any 
ability  at  all  who  never  sold  a  picture  was  looked  upon  as  a  butt 
of  the  exceptional  malignity  of  Fate.  Such  a  one's  friends  were 
never  tired  of  wondering  why  a  certain  lack  of  interest  in  Bubble's 
work,  or  Squeak's,  should  doom  those  capable  and  painstaking 
artists  to  monotonous  neglect,  considering  the  raptures  a  vulgar 
and  superficial  Public  surrendered  itself  to  over  the  shocking  daubs 
of  Nip  and  Tip  and  Gobble  and  Popple!  Bubble  was  a  stoopid 
feller  in  himself,  and  everybody  knew  that  Squeak's  poverty  of 
imagination  was  enough  to  stand  in  any  man's  way,  but  if  you 
came  to  that,  how  about  the  other  instances  cited?  No — the  fact 
that  neither  Bubble,  who  could  draw,  beyond  dispute,  nor  Squeak, 
who  was  no  mean  colourist,  could  either  of  them  get  a  dealer  to  so 
much  as  look  at  their  pictures,  could  only  be  accounted  for  as  a 
freak  of  the  fickle  goddess  of  Fortune.  Whereas  nowadays  no- 
body ever  thinks  it  necessary  to  wonder  at  anything  except  a  sale. 

Certainly  a  hazy  idea  stirs  in  my  mind  that  Squeak  and  Bubble 
would  have  looked  upon  taking  to  book-illustration  as  a  con- 
fession of  failure.  Memory  may  be  at  fault,  or  may  be  biassed  by 
some  conspicuous  chance  instances,  of  which  I  have  let  slip  the 
details.  But  my  efforts  to  account  to  my  Self  for  the  repugnance 
I  felt  to  crying  off  Real  Art,  and  utilizing  my  faculty  for  pen- 
skill  and  pencil-craft,  need  some  backing.  I  find  it  in  recollec- 
tions of  expressed  opinion,  that  to  resort  to  black  and  white  illus- 
trations would  be  a  falling  off  from  a  high  ideal  of  Life — the  ideal 
incorporated  in  The  Artist's  portrait  of  himself,  with  a  palette  on 
his  thumb  that  looks  as  if  you  would  get  all  over  orange  vermilion 
if  you  touched  it,  and  a  most  masterly  beginning  on  the  easel. 
How  well  one  knows  his  thoughtful  brow,  his  penetrating  gaze,  his 
cultivated  neglect  of  the  human  hair-brush!  Fancy  that  great 
being  climbing  down,  and  devoting  himself  to  humorous  caricature, 
with  a  quill  pen  or  lead  pencil ! 

I  get  a  little  backing  also  from  a  clear  memory  of  a  thought  that 
haunted  me,  that  I  was  bound  to  justify  my  father's  yielding  to  my 
professional  bias.  I  talked  to  Gracey  on  these  lines,  in  the  hope 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  413 

that  she  would  encourage  a  secret  wish  on  my  part  to  "  chuck  " 
Academical  education  and  discover  something  more  fraught  with 
colour  and  excitement — some  road  at  least  that  would  lead  visibly 
somewhere.  To  my  disgust,  Gracey  refused  to  accept  my  sug- 
gestion that  she  should  press  me  to  do  so  against  my  will.  That 
was  really  what  I  wanted — advice  to  struggle  against  this  mad 
determination  of  mine  to  climb  the  higher  slopes  of  Parnassus, 
curb  my  ambitious  aspirations,  and  submit  my  proud  soul  to  endure 
the  humble  style  and  title  of  an  illustrator.  I  had  paved  the  way 
to  this  dissuasion  by  a  hint  of  profits  reaped  by  the  groveller ;  while 
the  Theban  Eagle,  for  instance,  pays  the  penalty  of  soaring  by  a 
chronic  emptiness  of  pocket. 

But  Gracey  took  no  notice  of  my  hints,  and  encouraged  me  in 
a  most  trying  way  not  to  be  disheartened  by  the  difficulties  in 
my  path.  Patience  and  superhuman  application  were  all  that  was 
needed  for  a  success  in  Art,  to  include  a  world-wide  fame  and 
potentates  struggling  to  become  the  possessors  of  one's  immortal 
pictures.  I  was  tired  of  work  and  wanted  a  holiday,  that  was  all. 

I  was  obliged  to  make  believe  that  I  was  setting  my  teeth  with 
a  firmer  determination  than  ever  to  storm  Parnassus,  and  that 
my  remarks  had  been  dictated  solely  by  my  consciousness  that  I 
ought  to  be  earning  something. 

"  What  nonsense !  "  said  Gracey.  "  As  if  Papa  had  not  said 
hundreds  of  times  that  it  doesn't  matter  if  you  don't  earn  a  penny 
for  the  next  ten  years!  Besides,  why  shouldn't  you  show  some 
of  your  funny  little  quick  sketches  to  .  ...  to  the  proper  people, 
and  see  if  they  can't  make  use  of  them  ? " 

"  That's  an  idea,"  said  I,  consoled.  "  I  might  just  as  well  have 
a  shy,  as  not.  But  I  shall  tell  the  Governor." 

"Why,  of  course  tell  the  Governor!  Why  not?"  This  was  the 
merest  chat,  which  I  should  have  forgotten  if  Gracey  had  not 
said,  a  moment  later,  in  an  odd  roice : — "  Oh,  Jackey !  " 

I  looked  up,  and  Gracey  was  pale — for  no  reason  that  I  could 
fathom.  "What  is  it?"  said  I. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  said  she.    "I  know  nobody  spoke." 

"  Nobody  did,"  said  I,  feeling  eerie.  "  What's  the  fun?"  For 
a  certain  alarm  in  her  voice  seemed  to  me  to  call  for  bravado. 

"  Nothing,  darling  boy !  Go  on  drawing.  Draw  more."  I  was 
at  the  time  adding  a  sketch  to  a. book  merely  full  of  grotesques, 
and  we  had  been  talking  the  while.  "  What's  that  ?  You  must 
know  by  this  time."  I  replied  that  the  figure  in  question  was  a 
Duke,  but  that  I  couldn't  say  where  he  was  Duke  of. 

"Why  is  he  up  in  a  tree?"  said  Gracey. 


414  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  He's  talking  to  a  bird." 

"  What  sort  of  bird  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     A  tree-bird.    Any  bird.     I  say,  Gracey " 

"What,  Jackey  darling?" 

"  What  made  you  sing  out  just  now?  " 

"Did  I  sing  out?" 

"  Well — half  out.     What  made  you  say  nobody  spoke  ?  " 

"  Because  nobody  spoke.  All  the  same  I  felt " — here  Gracey 
dropped  her  voice  as  for  speech  about  the  dead — "  I  felt  exactly  as  I 
should  have  felt  if  I  had  heard  him  speak  close  to  us,  now." 

"What— Cooky?" 

"  Why,  of  course !  It  was  just  after  you  said  you  should  tell 
Papa  .  .  .  about  the  idea,  you  know.  I  felt  exactly  as  I  should 
have  felt  if  he  had  said,  '  Don't  be  an  ass,  little  Buttons ! '  here, 
quite  close  to  us.  Only  of  course  I  heard  nothing." 

"  Xo — because  there  wasn't  anything  to  hear."  Nevertheless, 
I  recall  that  I  proceeded,  as  it  were,  to  justify  myself  against  a 
misconstruction  that  might  have  been  placed  on  my  words  by  the 
speaker  who  had  never  spoken.  I  was  a  little  hurt  that  it  would 
have  been  so  exactly  what  Cooky  would  have  said  if  he  had  been 
there  to  say  anything.  Of  course  I  never  should  have  dreamed  of 
doing  anything  without  speaking  to  the  Governor  first,  except  to 
give  him  a  pleasant  surprise.  Then  I  felt  nettled  with  myself 
for  taking  to  heart  words  that  might  have  been  spoken,  but  were 
not.  So  much  so  that  I  almost  resented  Gracey's  detecting  my 
pique,  and  saying: — "It  wasn't  real,  you  know,  Jackey  darling." 

I  suppose  this  to  have  been  in  late  Autumn  or  early  Spring,  as 
I  recollect  sitting  by  the  fire  with  Gracey,  after  it  became  too 
dark  to  draw  Dukes,  talking  of  Cooky  and  the  days  gone  by.  He 
had  been  dead  a  couple  of  years  or  more,  then. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  I,  "  what  he  would  have  said  about  my  going 
on.  Going  on  with  Real  Art,  I  mean." 

Gracey  made  no  reply,  beyond,  "  Silly  boy! "  and  accommodating 
my  head  on  her  lap.  For  I  was  lying  on  the  hearthrug,  at  her  feet. 

"  I  wonder,"  I  repeated,  "  would  he  have  said  the  same — the 
same  as  just  now? " 

"  He  didn't  say  it  just  now." 

"  Well — you  know  what  I  mean.  The  same  he  didn't  say  just 
now." 

"'Don't  be  an  ass.  little  Buttons!'  Yes— that  is  what  he 
would  have  said."  Then  I  think  we  agreed,  she  and  I,  that  there 
was  no  need  to  give  up  "  Real  Art  "  merely  because  of  an  excursion 
into  illustration-making  for  books  or  periodicals.  As  to  which 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  415 

should  have  the  greater  share  in  my  future,  that  was  Destiny's 
lookout.  The  future  might  shape  itself. 

Therefore  it  was  that  I  said  to  my  father  at  the  next  convenient 
opportunity  given  by  an  evening  conclave : — ''  I  say,  Pap,  Bartholo- 
mew says  there's  no  end  of  money  to  be  made  out  of  illustrations." 

"  What  is  the  date  of  your  authority  ?  When  did  Bartholomew 
write  ? " 

"  He's  not  an  authority.    He's  a  chap." 

My  father  puffed  tranquilly  at  his  pipe,  with  his  eyes  affection- 
ately fixed  on  me,  and  enjoyed  a  phase  of  amusement  before  he 
said : — '*  Expressions  are  funny  things.  I  find  I  accept  yours  in 
spite  of  the  obvious  fact  that  a  human  creature  may  be  both  a 
chap  and  an  authority."  He  considered  yet  a  little  more,  and 
added : — "  It's  curious,  but  I  can't  shut  my  eyes  to  it,  that 
Bartholomew — not  being  an  authority,  but  being  a  chap — pre- 
sents himself  to  my  mind  as  a  fellow-student  of  yours  at 
the  Academy." 

"  Why,  of  course  he  is !     Why  should  he  be  anything  else  ? " 

"  Many  other  people  are.  But  let's  take  him  for  granted,  and 
hear  what  he  says  about  no  end  of  money." 

"  To  be  got  by  making  illustrations.  That's  what  he  says. 
I  was  thinking  there  would  be  no  harm  in  having  a  shy  at  it." 

"  Have  the  shy  by  all  means.  .  .   .  But,  Jackey  boy " 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say." 

"What?" 

"  That  I  mustn't  neglect  painting — real  work.    Well — I  won't." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  say  exactly  that.  But  I  must  confess  I 
don't  see  why  the  shy  should  involve  any  serious  neglect  of 
painting.  No,  my  dear  boy,  I  was  going  to  say  don't  be  dis- 
appointed if  nothing  comes  of  it.  In  the  course  of  my  life  I 
have  heard  of  so  many  things  there  was  no  end  of  money  to 
be  made  in.  But  they  have  all  had  one  quality  in  common." 

I  had  brightened  up  at  the  beginning  of  this,  but  felt  mis- 
giving towards  the  end,  and  asked  somewhat  hesitatingly  what 
it  was — this  quality  in  common. 

''  What  was  it  ? "  said  my  father.  "  Why,  other  people  had 
always  got  the  money,  not  the  people  who  told  me.  However, 
have  the  shy,  by  all  means,  and  we  shall  see  what  comes  of  it. 
How  are  we  going  to  set  about  it  ? " 

I  explained  the  tactics  I  proposed  to  adopt.  The  effect  of 
the  scheme  was  that  Bartholomew  should  write  a  humorous  poem, 
and  I  should  make  what  I  called  thumbnail  marginal  notes — 
little  sketchlets  of  intense  appropriateness — to  each  verse.  That 


416  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

the  result  should  be  offered  as  a  contribution  to  the  new  humor- 
ous journal,  Momus,  and  the  proceeds  divided  equally  between 
the  poet  and  the  illustrator.  Bartholomew  would  call  at  the  Office 
and  leave  it  himself.  He  had  the  cheek.  I  hadn't. 

4<  It  doesn't  matter  which,"  said  my  father.  "  The  result  would 
be  the  same.  That  is,  if  I  am  rightly  informed  as  to  how  these 
things  are  worked.  Billions  of  contributions  are  offered  to  jour- 
nals. These  are  examined  by  tens  of  thousands  of  illiterate 
clerks  at  low  salaries,  who  clear  out  what  they  think  rubbish, 
and  throw  it  into  waste-paper  baskets  of  prodigious  size.  Thou- 
sands of  persons  of  average  capacity  study  what  is  left,  and 
throw  what  they  reject  into  much  smaller  waste-paper  baskets, 
and  so  on.  At  last  only  a  few  hundred  jeux-d'esprits  and  thought- 
ful monographs  remain,  and  these  are  examined  by  persons  of 
penetrating  intellect,  who  pass  on  a  final  selection  to  the  Editor. 
I  think  the  system  a  wrong  one,  myself." 

"  Which  way  ought  it  be  done  ? " 

"  The  other  way  round.  The  penetrating  intellect  is  required 
to  say  what  should  be  quashed  outright.  Any  fool  can  decide  on 
publishing  what  will  be  forgotten  on  its  merits  in  a  day.  Any- 
way, if  you  send  them  your  drawings,  you'll  never  see  them 
again.  Your  friend's  rhymes  don't  matter.  He  can  keep  a 
copy." 

My  father's  little  lecture  had  a  purpose  behind  it.  He  went 
on  to  say  that  he  had  heard  that  an  old  college  fellow  of  his  had 
started  a  new  weekly,  of  a  comic  sort,  and  that  this  might  be 
this  identical  Momus.  If  so,  he  could  write  to  him  about  me, 
and  send  him  some  of  my  drawings.  That  would  be  much  more 
likely  to  get  attention  to  them. 

On  inquiry  next  day  of  my  friend  Bartholomew  the  identity 
of  this  editor  was  established,  and  some  correspondence  with  him 
led  to  my  supplying  some  dramatic  initial  letters,  which  were 
approved.  They  were  the  precursors  of  a  long  development  of 
grotesque  woodcuts,  for  which  I  became  well  enough  known  in 
my  day,  and  which  supplied  me  with  resources  in  proportion 
to  my  industry  in  producing  them  until — well — until  I  was  com- 
pelled to  discontinue  its  exercise.  If  I  live  long  enough,  I 
shall  come  to  the  telling  of  that. 

As  to  poor  old  Real  Art,  my  first  love,  it  must  not  be  sup- 
posed that  I  discarded  her  altogether.  On  the  contrary,  I  kept 
the  fiction  alive  for  a  considerable  time  by  beginning  new 
"  studies  "  twice  a  month — I  think  that  was  the  rule — and  neglect* 
ing  them  twice  a  month  with  steadfast  punctuality.  I  had  to 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  417 

begin  them,  or  I  could  not  have  been  thwarted  in  my  desire  to 
complete  them,  but  it  was  entirely  a  matter  of  form.  I  had  reason 
to  believe — so  far  as  being  told  anything  by  Bartholomew  was 
a  reason  for  believing  it — that  'Opkins  shed  tears  over  my  defec- 
tion. He  said,  according  to  my  informant : — "  Parscoe  ain't  the 
first  by  a  many  that's  neglected  the  'igher  objects  of  Art  for 
the  Dagon  of  Commerce.  I  'old,  myself,  with  makin'  rumination 
secondary,  and  on  no  account  proarstitootin'  gifts  above  the  aver- 
age to  a  fixed  salary."  This  was  a  reference  to  an  offer  I  had 
accepted  of  a  very  small  rumination,  or  remuneration,  for  a 
stated  output  of  vignettes  or  initials  delivered  punctually  on 
Monday  morning.  I  think  Bartholomew  exaggerated  'Opkins's 
style.  I  have  noticed  that  Satire  is  apt  to  exaggerate  its  provo- 
cations; and  that  when  we  seek  to  hold  our  fellow-men  up  to 
ridicule,  we  dress  him  grotesquely  in  a  garb  of  our  own  devising. 
When  we  condemn  him  to  death,  we  leave  his  crimes  unexag- 
gerated.  This  is  owing  to  our  confidence  in  a  hereafter.  He 
will  be  properly  seen  to — never  fear!  We  hang  the  man,  and  the 
Devil  does  the  rest. 

I  think  'Opkins  held  off  from  me  from  this  date,  accounting 
me  no  longer  worthy  to  be  called  his  pal.  I  understood  that  he 
spoke  of  me  as  a  backslider  from  the  true  fount  of  Art,  and 
destined  to  reap  an  inevitable  Nemesis.  These  metaphors  were 
obscure,  but  Bartholomew,  who  told  me  how  'Opkins  had  described 
me,  and  supplied  his  own  commentary,  saw  no  reason  to  suppose 
his  heart  was  not  in  the  right  place.  It  would,  he  said,  make  one 
inclined  to  quarrel  with  the  decrees  of  Providence,  that  a  man 
should  not  only  have  been  deliberately  created  with  a  displaced 
heart,  but  should  have  been  compelled  to  be  'Opkins  into  the 
bargain.  He  added,  however,  that  he  never  gave  way  to  his 
combative  inclinations  ^n  this  direction,  being  a  prudent  man, 
awake  to  the  fact  that  one's  attitude  towards  Omnipotence  should 
be  subject  to  the  consideration  of  which  side  one's  bread  was 
buttered.  He  was  really,  if  the  truth  was  known,  a  time-server, 
and  had  no  doubt  that  beyond  the  tomb  he  should  be  an  Eternity- 
server.  For  where  was  the  use  of  trying  conclusions  with  a 
Deity  who  was  omnipotent  by  hypothesis,  was  not  open  to  argu- 
ment, and  had  the  authorized  version  of  the  Scriptures  at  his 
finger's  ends,  and  was  besides  without  any  sense  of  Humour 
whatever.  All  the  same,  he  said,  it  was  an  Awful  Choice  that 
was  placed  before  us,  poor  tremblers  at  the  Seat  of  Judgment ; 
considering  that  so  far  as  he  could  see,  Heaven  and  Hell  were 
six  of  the  one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other.  In  fact,  he  would 


418  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

personally  prefer  the  latter,  because  of  the  company,  more  espe- 
cially since  he  understood  from  Liberal  members  of  the  Church 
of  England  that  it  was  quite  an  open  question  whether  Dissenters 
went  to  Hell. 

It  has  been  said  that  amusement  could  riot  be  derived  from 
incongruities  if  it  were  not  for  the  prior  acceptance  of  an  absurd- 
ity as  a  reality  by  the  mind.  Bartholomew's  mind  had  been  pre- 
pared for  such  amusement  by  his  religious  education.  He  had 
to  thank  two  Evangelical  Aunts  for  the  gratification  he  derived 
from  ridiculing  the  early  materials  of  Salvation  by  Faith  that 
they  had  afforded  him. 

'Opkins  may  have  contributed  something  to  the  feeling  I  had 
that  it  would  never  do  to  forsake  Real  Art  for  such  an  ephemeral 
employment  as  woodcuts  in  periodicals.  Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  atti- 
tude, on  the  contrary,  made  me  feel  that  if  it  were  not  for  my 
family  nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  throw 
up  the  Academy  for  good,  and  addict  myself  solely  to  my  new 
vocation.  For  I  hated  Wall\ey,  and  my  soul  was  in  rebellion 
against  all  her  rules  of  life  and  moral  precepts. 

There  was  a  topic  the  good  lady  was  never  tired  of  dwelling 
on — the  impression  my  first  visit  to  Italy  was  going  to  pro- 
duce on  me.  My  whole  inner  being,  she  announced  was  going 
to  be  hushed — silenced — in  the  Living  Presence  of  a  Mighty 
Past.  I  didn't  feel  at  all  sure  that  I  should  be  pleased  at  this, 
but  I  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  supposed  that  sort  of  thing 
did  make  a  chap  sit  up  and  think.  In  fact,  I  had  heard  a  chap 
say  as  much;  a  chap,  that  is,  who  had  himself  sat  up  and  thought. 
I  certainly  recall  that  I  did  mention  that  'Opkins,  whose  ideal 
of  Art  Education  was  the  Royal  Academy  Schools  for  ever  and 
ever,  had  rebuked  the  chap  and  denounced  study  in  Italy  as 
an  'oiler  sham. 

"'  The  Ideal  of  Art-Earnestness,"  said  Mrs.  Walkinshaw,  sitting 
upright  on  our  sofa  with  her  eyes  shut,  to  emphasize  the  fact 
that  she  was  soaring  above  'Opkins,  "  is  to  be  found  in  Michel- 
angelo. To  work  in  Italy,  at  the  very  shrine  of  his  achievements, 
is  to  partake  of  his  atmosphere.  We  must  be  content  with  noth- 
ing less  than  a  course  of  study  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel." 

I  feel  certain  that  the  emphasis  which  faulty  oratory  threw 
on  the  word  shadow  made  my  stepmothers  mind  reel,  and  bred 
an  idea  in  it  that  the  advantages  of  studentship  in  Rome  were 
circumscribed  and  localized,  as  suggested.  For  she  said,  depre- 
catingly : — "  Perhaps  we  shall  not  find  an  empty  Studio."  And 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  419 

Gracey  made  the  point  clearer  by  asking  pointblank  how  big  the 
shadow  was. 

Mrs.  Walkinshaw  was  nearly  through  a  laugh  before  she  opened 
her  eyes  with  the  exclamation : — u  Oh,  but  you  are  such  literal 
dears  1  Fancy  'how  big'!  Our  dear  Gracey  1"  She  endeav- 
oured to  entangle  my  sister  in  an  embrace,  but  Gracey  got 
cleverly  away,  falling  back  behind  me  as  a  support.  Then  Mrs. 
Walkinshaw  cleared  up  the  position,  saying  briefly : — "  I  spoke 
metaphorically."  She  then  resumed  the  subject  with  a  species 
of  rapture,  clasping  her  lavender  kid  gloves  to  say : — "  Oh,  but  I 
see  it.  A  Studio  in  Rome,  and  receptions!  Oh,  my  darling 
Gracey — how  small  we  shall  feel ! "  My  memory  must  be  at 
fault  here.  It  must  have  created  an  image  of  this  excellent  lady 
endeavouring  to  dodge  round  me,  to  gloat  over  or  otherwise 
gushily  molest  Gracey.  I  can't  remember  whether  Gracey  escaped, 
or  fell  a  victim  and  had  to  be  coiled  round.  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly making  drawings  to  this  effect  next  day,  and  it  may  be 
that  my  drawings,  remaining  in  my  memory,  have  substituted  a 
false  effect  for  the  reality. 

Further  than  this,  I  can  only  add  to  my  disjointed  recollec- 
tions an  image  of  the  patient  forbearance  of  my  father,  whose 
love  for  me  bore  me  out  in  this  new  departure  of  illustration- 
making,  as  I  believe  it  would  have  done  in  any  new  course  that 
had  taken  my  fancy — even  an  absurd  one — in  the  belief  that  I 
should  one  day  steady  down  into  some  reasonable  and  perhaps 
profitable  vocation.  And  if  I  did  not,  would  he  not  be  able  to 
leave  enough  to  his  survivors  to  put  absolute  poverty  out  of 
the  question? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

WHAT  a  long  time  my  father  held  on  at  Somerset  House  after 
that  narrow  escape,  just  after  my  mother's  death,  of  throwing 
up  his  situation  prematurely  and  losing  his  pension!  He  might 
have  resigned,  and  claimed  it,  many  years  before  he  did  so.  But 
the  fact  was  that  he  was  on  that  occasion  obeying  an  impulse 
against  the  grain,  and  letting  his  respect  for  my  mother's  wish 
run  counter  to  his  own  prudence,  and  perhaps  to  his  reluctance 
to  say  good-bye  to  the  post  he  had  filled  for  so  many  years.  He 
was  one  of  those  people  who  think  that  everything  ought  to  go  on 
for  ever,  and  would  do  so,  if  it  were  not  for  the  difficulty-mongering 
of  every  one  else. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  degringole  from  my  Higher  Art  In- 
stincts— Mrs.  Walkinshaw's  expression — and  been  at  work  as  an 
illustrator  for  some  months  at  the  time  of  the  incidents  which 
led  to  my  father's  farewell  to  Inland  Revenue.  These  two  words 
are  still  so  familiar  to  me  that  I  cannot  really  understand  their 
meaning.  I  can,  of  course,  assign  to  them  mechanically  the  inter- 
pretation that  my  mind  has  received  since  childhood ;  but  that's 
another  thing.  I  caress  the  idea  of  my  infancy,  that  they  ex- 
pressed a  great  something  that  never  could  be  known  to  me,  and 
can  reconstitute  pro  hoc  vice  the  frame  of  mind  which  associated 
them  with  what  I  was  told  was  a  Revenue  Cutter,  at  the  seaside. 
My  father's  avocation  was  Inland,  that  was  all.  This  vessel  could 
cut  only  Revenues  that  were  met  out  at  sea;  as  fish,  sea-gulls,  or 
otherwise.  But  both  forms  of  Revenue  were  beyond  me,  and  I 
accepted  them  without  inquiry. 

This  passive  acceptance  in  childhood  of  a  Government  Depart- 
ment that  I  could  not  in  the  nature  of  things  know  anything 
about  must  have  clung  to  me  through  life.  For  more  than  once, 
when  I  had  occasion  to  seek  my  father  out  at  Somerset  House, 
for  the  delivery  of  a  message  or  what  not,  I  felt  unable  to  approach 
its  mysterious  interior  in  the  same  spirit  as  that  in  which  I 
should  have  explored  any  other  great  Institution  in  London,  even 
the  Mansion  House.  Surely  the  latter  ought  to  inspire  awe.  Yet 
when  I  went  there  once — to  get  the  Lord  Mayor's  name  and  seal 
appended  to  a  Colonial  document  that  refused  to  be  content  with 

420 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  421 

anything  less — I  trod  the  sacred  precincts  without  misgiving,  even 
with  confidence.  It  was  quite  otherwise  at  Somerset  House.  There 
my  whole  soul  felt  hushed  by  the  thought  that  I  was  here — here 
in  the  very  place  that  had  co-existed  with  me  from  all  time,  that 
I  had  thought  of  as  an  unvarying  background  to  my  father,  but 
whose  interior  was  as  unknown  to  me  as  any  Thibetan  shrine ;  and 
whose  purpose  was  inscrutable,  though  guaranteed  unimpeachable 
by  my  father  having  something  to  do  with  it.  I  wonder  whether 
any  other  than  myself  ever  had  so  strange  a  relation  with  another 
Institution  as  mine  with  Somerset  House — was  ever  conscious  of 
such  a  one  as  a  Fact,  without  details,  through  so  long  a  term 
of  years;  and  yet  made  no  inquiry,  as  I  made  none,  that  would 
have  brought  it  down  from  the  realm  of  almost  abstract  ideas 
to  the  concrete  conditions  of  a  Public  Office,  where  you  can  go 
in  at  the  wrong  door,  and  ask  your  way  a  great  many  times,  and 
have  to  wait  a  very  long  time  for  answers?  Also,  where  there  are 
places  you  can  take  a  seat  in  till  Mr.  So-and-so  is  disengaged, 
and  would  you  like  to  see  this  morning's  Times? — where  your 
letter  that  introduces  you  and  explains  your  business  is  caught 
in  a  whirlwind  and  borne  away,  and  you  think  you  are  lost  in 
Chaos  till  the  young  man  comes  back  and  says  Mr.  So-and-so 
will  be  able  to  see  you  presently;  where  pigeon-holes  have  broken 
out  in  eruptions  on  the  walls,  and  classification  seems  to  have 
become  an  irresistible  habit,  like  Alcoholism.  I  am  only  men- 
tioning a  few  of  the  characteristics  of  such  places  in  the  con- 
crete, at  random,  to  emphasize  my  recollection  of  the  idea,  Som- 
erset House,  as  it  was  first  instilled  into  my  baby  mind,  and  was 
retained  there,  as  an  abstraction,  till  well  on  into  manhood.  That 
idea  had  nothing  in  common  with  these  banalities.  It  was  above 
them — extensive,  continuous,  and  dignified,  but  quite  above  func- 
tions and  duties  and  objects  and  things,  that  mortal  men  fulfil, 
or  don't. 

It  was  my  father  himself  who  first  found  out  the  fact  that  the 
time  had  come  for  his  resignation.  And  the  incident  that  set 
him  a-thinking  first  over  that  fact  was  one  that  I  still  remem- 
ber well;  I  suppose  because  subsequent  events  made  me  recall  as 
much  as  I  could  of  it,  to  illuminate  them  if  possible.  It  hap- 
pened in  this  wise,  one  afternoon  in  the  Summer  when  I  was  return- 
ing from  a  sketching  expedition. 

Gracey  was  just  passing  in  at  the  garden  gate  when  I  turned 
into  the  lane,  and  she  did  not  see  me  coming.  So  I  had  to 
knock  at  the  door  independently.  She  knew  my  knock  and  opened 
to  me,  having  stopped  to  look  at  the  directions  of  letters.  I  heard 


422  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

her  tell  Raynes,  while  I  was  still  outside,  that  it  was  only  me 
and  she  needn't  come.  Why  she  thought  it  needful  to  stop 
Raynes's  career  I  don't  know.  Exercise  was  good  for  Raynes. 

"Any  letters?"  said  I,  for  no  reason.  For  I  saw  there  were 
none  for  me.  One  does  see,  very  quickly,  the  absence  of  one's 
own  name  from  a  post. 

"  Nothing  of  any  interest,"  said  Gracey.  "  They're  all  for 
Papa  and  Aunt  Helen."  But  she  kept  on  looking  at  one  of 
them. 

I  also  looked  at  each  in  turn,  to  verify  this.  Again,  without 
reason.  For  I  trusted  Gracey's  word.  She  kept  on  looking  at  the 
one  she  held.  "  What's  the  matter  with  that  one  ? "  said  I. 

"  Only  that  it's  so  odd,"  said  she.  "  Look  at  it,  and  see  what 
you  think!  .  .  .  Now — isn't  it  odd?" 

I  cast  about  for  a  negative  attitude,  but  could  find  nothing  bet- 
ter than : — "  I  don't  see  anything  odd  in  that.  Some  chap's  hand- 
writing is  like  the  Governor's.  Well ! — lots  of  people  write  exactly 
alike." 

"  No,  Jackey  dear — that's  just  what  they  don't  do.  Every  one 
writes  his  own  way,  and  nobody  else's."  I  pooh-poohed  this,  which 
indeed  may  be  a  little  overstated,  and  went  upstairs. 

But  I  had  only  just  reached  the  landing  when  my  father's  latch- 
key clicked  in  the  door.  "  There's  the  Governor  coming !  "  said 
I,  over  the  stair-rail.  "You  ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  odd."  I 
waited  to  hear,  though;  for  I  did  not  feel  so  very  sure,  after  all. 

"What's  the  rumpus?"  said  my  father,  coming  in.  "Who 
thinks  what?  What  do  we  think?  Any  letters? "  The  first  ques- 
tions called  for  no  answer.  They  only  emphasized  general  com- 
munion. 

Gracey  answered  the  last.  "  Three  for  you — two  for  Aunt 
Helen — none  for  me — none  for  Jackey !  Who's  this  from  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because  it's  so  like  your  writing."  Gracey  handed  the  odd 
letter  to  my  father,  who  opened  it,  assenting  to  her  view  after 
glancing  at  the  direction,  with  the  remark : — "  So  it  is.  Some 
chap's  done  it  for  a  lark.  It  seems  to  me  a  very  mild  lark."  I 
fancied  that  he  seemed  nettled  at  the  presumption  of  this  cor- 
respondent, and  that  he  opened  the  letter  with  something  like  im- 
patience. A  glance  at  the  signature,  which  came  foremost,  pro- 
voked a  sudden  exclamation: — "Well — but — but  ...  I  wrote 
this  ...  I  wrote  this  yesterday."  Then  he  turned  to  the  direction 
on  the  envelope,  saying  in  great  bewilderment : — "  But  what — but 
why  ?  "  Then  he  collected  himself,  to  say  emphatically :— "  Some 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  423 

stupid  mistake !  Mine,  I  daresay !  Yes,  probably  mine ! ''  My 
stepmother's  knock  at  the  street-door  broke  into  any  possible  ex- 
planation, and  I  thought  my  father  seemed  relieved  to  be  able  to 
thrust  this  mysterious  epistle  into  his  breast-pocket,  and  to  say 
to  her  that  it  was,  "  Oh,  nothing !  "  with  such  an  obvious  wish 
to  extinguish  the  topic,  that  Gracey  and  I  were  silent  about  it. 

Nevertheless,  Gracey  came  into  my  room,  and  sat  on  the  bed 
while  I  changed  my  boots,  all  about  this  letter.  "  What  was  it 
upset  Papa  so?"  said  she.  "Because  he  was  upset,  Jackey,  and 
it's  no  use  saying  he  wasn't." 

Then  I  began  to  see  that  there  was  a  problem  awaiting  solu- 
tion. My  first  contribution  to  it  was : — "  Somebody  put  the  Gov- 
ernor's letter  in  the  wrong  envelope." 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  letter,"  said  Gracey.  "  What  I  want 
to  know  about  is  the  envelope.  Who  directed  it  ? " 

''The  Governor,  of  course!" 

"Yes — but  why?     People  don't  direct  letters  to  themselves." 

"  Oh  yes,  they  do,  though ! "  I  plunged  into  a  maze  of  im- 
probable supposition,  of  a  person  at  a  place  of«  business  who  had 
left  the  address  of  an  unknown  correspondent  at  home,  and  whom 
to  make  it  more  sure  that  his  answer  should  be  forwarded  when 
he  returned  in  the  evening,  and  not  forgotten,  had  done  as  my 
father  appeared  to  have  done.  It  was  ingenious,  but  did  not 
bear  examination. 

Gracey  took  the  most  salient  point.  "  If  it  was  that,"  said  she, 
"  why  was  Papa  surprised  ?  " 

I  began,  "  Well — you  see !  .  .  ."  weakly,  and  got  deeper  in  the 
mire.  So  Gracey  laughed  at  me  and  called  me  a  silly  boy,  whiefe 
I  deserved.  Then  she  ran  away  to  get  ready  for  dinner. 

I  heard  no  more  of  the  letter  until  my  father  and  I  were  smok- 
ing in  the  study  after  dinner.  Then  he  referred  to  it,  as  I  knew 
he  would,  without  any  suggestion  on  my  part  that  he  should  do  so. 

"  Now,  Master  Jackey,"  said  he,  "  I  want  you  to  turn  your  pow- 
erful mind  to  the  solution  of  a  practical  problem.  What  do  you 
make  of  that  ? "  He  held  out  the  empty  envelope  to  me  as  he 
spoke,  and  I  felt  as  I  took  it  from  him  somewhat  as  a  super- 
stitious person  feels  who  is  offered  a  thing  warranted  bewitched, 
and  fights  shy  of  handling  it.  I  pretended  indifference,  however, 
and  looked  inside  it  for  the  letter.  "  There's  nothing  in  it,"  said 
I.  "No  letter,  I  mean." 

"Precisely,"  said  he.  "I  sent  the  letter  on,  to  get  it  off  my 
conscience.  Also  to  catch  the  next  post;  Mr.  Westrop  will  get 
his  letter,  only  twenty-four  hours  late.  It's  not  a  hanging  mat- 


424  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

ter.  But  how  about  the  envelope?  What  do  we  make  of  that? 
Who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  I,  seeing  no  escape,  "  you  wrote  it.  Or  some  beg- 
gar who  writes  exactly  like  you,  anyhow!" 

"  7  wrote  it,"  said  my  father,  gravely.  "  And  the  question  is — 
why?  Why  did  I  write  it?" 

Of  course  this  question,  and  the  way  he  waited  for  an  answer, 
was  embarrassing.  I  think  I  changed  colour  and  hesitated. 
"  Didn't  you  know  why  ?  "  said  I.  I  could  not  say : — "  Don't  you 
know  w,hy?"  It  would  have  been  rude. 

"  I  did  not  even  know  that  I  did  it.  It  was  done  unconsciously. 
1  could  understand  writing  my  own  name  instead  of  some  one 
else's,  if  the  first  syllables  were  the  same.  Then  if  one  forgot  to 
go  on  thinking  about  what  was  to  come  next,  one's  hand  would 
not  write  what  was  to  come  next;  one's  hand  would  write  what 
it  was  most  accustomed  to  write.  That  does  happen.  But " 

"But  what?" 

"  But  to  write  Nathaniel  Pascoe,  Esquire,  instead  of  Thomas 
Truman  Westrop,  Esquire — just  consider!  Thomas  Truman  Wes- 
trop .  .  .  Thomas  Truman  Westrop.  ..."  He  went  on  repeating 
the  name,  as  though  to  catch  some  point  of  resemblance  to  his 
own,  that  would  furnish  a  clue  to  his  aberration. 

I  turned  fatuously  to  the  task  of  discovering  a  resemblance 
between  the  names.  I  traced  each  letter  of  Nathan  complete,  to 
my  surprise,  but  was  upset  by  the  third  syllable.  I  gave  it  up, 
with  the  remark  that  I  was  afraid  that  cock  wouldn't  fight. 

"  He's  a  very  poor  bird,"  said  my  father,  and  went  on  smoking 
thoughtfully.  As  for  me,  I  felt  that  I  had  really  nothing  to  say, 
and  held  my  tongue. 

Presently  my  father  said,  as  though  his  cogitations  had  borne 
fruit : — ''  One  thing  is  pretty  clear — this  may  happen  again !  " 

"  Suppose  it  does !  " 

" '  Suppose  it  does  ? '  You're  a  nice  son  and  heir  for  a  public 
servant.  However — I'll  tell  you.  That  letter  was  written  to 
Thomas  Truman  Westrop — whoever  he  is;  7  don't  know — to  tell 
him  that  his  letter  would  be  laid  before  the  Board.  And  it  doesn't 
matter  a  brass  farthing  whether  he  gets  it  today  or  tomorrow,  or 
next  week.  But  the  one  I  wrote  just  after  that  was  to  assure 
the  Secretary  of  State  that  I  would  wait  upon  him  next  Monday 
as  appointed,  and  bring  all  the  necessary  documents.  That  hap- 
pened to  be  a  reply  by  bearer,  to  make  the  thing  a  fixture.  But 
it  might  have  gone  by  post,  for  all  I  can  see.  Now,  suppose  I 
had  sent  that  letter  to  Thomas  Truman  Westrop — who's  a  man 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  425 

with  a  grievance — he  might  have  avenged  himself  on  the  Official 
World  by  throwing  it  in  the  fire.  I  think  I  am  not  exagger- 
ating when  I  say  that  that  would  have  been  a  pretty  kettle  of 
fish,  seeing  what  the  alternative  appointment  was." 

"  Couldn't  you  have  made  it  hot  for  what's — his — name,  Thomas 
Truman  Westrop,  if  he  burnt  your  letter  ? " 

"  My  dear  boy,  I'm  glad  you're  an  Artist,  not  a  detective.  How- 
ever should  I  know  that  he  had  burnt  my  letter?" 

I  reflected,  and  found  no  answer.  I  could  only  see  my  way  to 
a  vague  optimism.  "  But  no  harm  has  come  of  it,  so  what  does 
it  matter?" 

"  No  harm  has  come  of  it  this  time,"  he  replied,  with  even 
more  of  gravity  in  his  manner.  "  Indeed,  some  good  may  have 
come  of  it,  for  I  think  I  can  make  sure  that  it  never  will  happen 
again.  We  shall  see."  I  said  no  more. 

This  incident  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  my  father's  decision, 
made  shortly  afterwards,  to  resign  his  position  at  Somerset  House; 
although,  so  far  as  he  assigned  reasons  for  doing  so  publicly,  no 
reference  was  made  to  anything  but  his  long  term  of  service,  and 
his  feeling  that  old  stagers  should  clear  out  and  make  way  for  the 
rising  generation.  This,  however,  was  some  months  later. 

He  took  me  quite  into  his  confidence;  no  one  perhaps  so  thor- 
oughly. For  he  told  my  stepmother  as  little  as  he  could  about  the 
misdirected  letter  and  the  cause  of  his  alarm.  Indeed,  although 
he  told  her  of  the  incident — and  this  he  could  scarcely  avoid  doing, 
as  she  had  come  upon  him  at  the  moment  of  its  occurrence — he 
did  not  inform  her  of  the  resolution  he  formed  in  consequence. 
He  admitted  that  the  curious  misdirection  implied  something 
abnormal  in  his  state  of  health,  but  laid  it  down  to  stomach,  the 
optimist's  scapegoat. 

To  me  he  was  quite  explicit.  When  we  were  alone  together 
a  few  evenings  later,  in  the  garden  this  time — this  was  in  the 
Summer,  and  after-dinner  smokes  were  frequently  out  of  doors — 
he  referred  to  the  subject  again. 

"  It's  the  writing  on  the  wall,  my  dear  boy !  "  said  he.  "  Only 
this  time  the  same  actor  is  cast  for  the  part  of  Belshazzar  and 
the  Prophet.  I  shall  burn  out."  He  was  looking  at  the  match 
he  had  just  used  to  light  his  pipe,  which  was  flickering  on  the 
ground  at  our  feet. 

"  I  shall  burn  out,"  he  repeated.  "  Without  spitting  and  fizzing. 
I  hope.  It's  one  of  the  quarrels  I  have  with  my  Creator — whom 
I  presume,  without  definite  reason,  to  have  been  everybodiy's 
else's — that  with  all  the  unlimited  resources  of  Omnipotence, 


426  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

he  could  not  contrive  some  less  awkward  and  repulsive  way  of 
winding  up  Life  than  Death.  And  to  make  matters  worse,  one 
is  decently  interred.  It  is  no  use  pretending  that  God  did  not 
make  undertakers,  because  they  have  just  as  good  a  claim  to  be 
considered  His  Creatures  as  Members  of  Society." 

I  am  pretty  sure  this  is  sound  recollection,  not  plausible  recon- 
struction. What  I  said  in  reply  ignored  the  theology,  as  I 
was  more  interested  in  the  prediction  that  had  led  to  it.  "  But 
why  burn  out,  Pap  dear?  Why  more  than  any  one  else,  I  mean? 
We  all  burn  out,  I  suppose  sometime.  ...  I  say,  Pap !" 

"What,  for  instance,  Intelligent  Offspring?" 

"What  did  Dr.  Scammony  say?"  For  I  knew  he  had  been 
to  consult  the  little  man,  but  had  so  far  only  a  very  imperfect 
report  of  the  medical  verdict.  "I  don't  believe  he  only  said 
'  Diet.' " 

"  That's  all  that  concerns  the  General  Public.  The  remainder 
is  shrouded  in  mystery.  But  it's  no  secret  that  he  said  I  should 
see  Rayson;  or  that  I  didn't  twig,  and  said  I  never  knew  he  was 
an  Irishman.  He  twigged,  and  said: — 'No — not  reason,  Rayson — 
Sir  Alcibiades  Rayson.  He's  the  man  for  this  sort  of  job '  .  .  .  I 
think  it  would  be  best  that  you  should  repeat  nothing  I  say  to 
your  stepmamma,  or  perhaps  to  anybody." 

'"I  shan't  repeat  a  single  word,"  said  I,  rather  proud  to  know 
something  more  than  the  General  Public,  especially  as  my  step- 
mother seemed  to  belong  to  it.  "He's  a  Big  Wig,  I  suppose?" 

"  As  large  a  Wig  as  the  subject  admits  of.  ...  No — I  can't 
see  my  way  to  a  Baronetcy,  in  this  connection !  "  He  seemed 
to  turn  the  advancement  of  this  gentleman  over  in  his  mind,  and 
to  decide  that  knighthood  met  all  the  needs  of  the  case;  then 
resumed : — "  However,  I  daresay  I  shall  go  and  see  him,  for  little 
Scammony's  sake.  He  doesn't  like  the  responsibility.  If  Sir 
Rnyson  puts  me  on  charcoal,  and  forbids  meat  and  fish  and  wine 
and  eggs  and  butter  and  cheese.,  I  can  remain  on  the  charcoal 
in  theory,  and  prey  upon  animals  and  vegetables  ad  libitum  like 
Violante  in  the  pantry,  gnoring  of  a  mutton-bone."  My  father 
seemed  to  derive  great  satisfaction  from  this  prospect  of  sur- 
reptitious evasion  of  doctor's  orders. 

I  got  back  to  the  main  point.  "  But  about  the  writing  on  the 
wall.  Do  you  mean  that  .  .  .  ? "  I  hung  fire  over  saying  the 
thing  I  meant. 

He  had  no  such  scruples  and  accepted  my  meaning  with  per- 
feot  equanimity.  "  Mean  that  I  shall  die  one  day,  and  that  the 
disorder  I  shall  die  of  is  identified  ?  That  was  my  meaning.  It 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  427 

would  be  infinitely  more  correct  to  make  believe  that  I  was  im- 
mortal, as  properly  brought-up  people  do,  in  Christian  communi- 
ties. .  .  What! — do  you  mean  that  they  don't?  Why,  when  some- 
one near  a  hundred  is  on  his  deathbed,  don't  the  newspapers  say 
'  the  worst  is  feared '  ?  And  people  are  '  not  expected  to  live  ' — 
no  one  is  ever  so  candid  as  to  say  he  is  expected  to  die.  Really, 
the  proverb  '  Never  say  die '  gets  obeyed  all  round." 

I  said  something  about  how  words  didn't  count.  But  I  don't 
think  it  meant  anything. 

"  Well,"  said  my  father,  cheerfully,  "  facts  count,  and  I  drove 
little  Scammony  into  a  corner,  and  made  him  speak  as  nearly 
plain  as  a  human  General  Practitioner  could  be  expected  to  do. 
He  said  that  if  I  developed  sundry  symptoms,  he,  if  he  were  I, 
would  make  my  Will.  I  told  him  that  if  he  were  me,  he  would 
have  done  that  years  ago.  We  got  a  little  perplexed  over  an  ob- 
scure hypothesis." 

"  He  wasn't  so  very  plain,  that  I  see.  He  only  said  if  you 
developed  .  .  .  what  was  it  ? " 

"  I  forget  the  exact  name  of  the  complaint.  It  doesn't  matter. 
I  long  ago  gave  up  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  diseases' 
names.  There  are  really  only  two  sorts,  those  that  kill,  and  those 
that  permit  of  a  modus  vivendi.  I  prefer  the  first.  The  modus  is 
never  a  comfortable  one  for  their  ....  client — suppose  we  say — 
however  satisfactory  to  themselves.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  be 
a  pain  in  the  head  of  somebody\one  hated !  How  one  would  come 
on,  and  get  worse,  and  never  yield  to  treatment !  " 

I  don't  believe  he  had  forgotten  the  name  of  the  complaint. 

At  another  time  I  should  have  listened  with  pleasure  to  my 
father  in  this  mood,  as  I  always  did.  But  the  importance  he  had 
seemed  to  attach  to  that  insignificant  affair  of  the  misdirection, 
and  the  fact  that  he  had  certainly  paid  Dr.  Scammony  a  visit 
in  consequence  of  it,  lent  weight  to  those  unpleasant  words  of  his 
about  the  "  writing  on  the  wall."  Otherwise  I  might  have  thought 
them  nothing  but  vague  moralizing,  suggested  perhaps  by  the  short- 
lived flame  of  that  match  on  the  gravel  path.  I  did  not  feel  any 
real  alarm  about  him,  because  real  danger,  in  the  case  of  any  one 
so  intrinsically  permanent  as  he,  was  impossible  per  se.  Death 
lays  his  icy  hand  on  Kings;  but  then  they  are  public  characters, 
and  History  has  to  be  considered. 

So  I  only  felt  a  little  passing  discomfort  at  his  reference  to 
Daniel,  and  allowed  my  natural  optimism  to  take  its  course. 
"  You're  all  right,  Pater  dear!"  said  I.  ''You've  only  got  not 
to  develop — something  with  a  Latin  name.  It  had  a  Latin  name, 


428  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  suppose?"  I  said  this  with  a  view  to  getting  at  the  name,  and 
asking  questions  of  a  young  medical  man  I  had  come  to  know, 
the  brother  of  an  Artist  whom  I  met  first  at  the  Academy  Schools. 

"  Not  a  Latin  name  this  time,"  said  my  father.  "  Greek.  It's 
just  as  easy  not  to  develop  a  disease  in  Greek  as  in  Latin,  even 
when  one  knows  as  little  Greek  as  I  do.  However,  I  know  enough 
to  know  this  was  a  Greek  disease,  not  a  Latin  one.  But  it  went 
in  at  one  ear,  and  out  at  the  other.  .  .  .  There — I've  forgotten 
it!  "  He  withheld  the  name,  which  was  what  I  expected.  As  far 
as  I  know,  it  was  never  mentioned  again  between  us.  One  is  shy 
of  giving  its  name  to  a  disorder,  in  speech  with  its  victim. 

But  some  words  he  had  used  on  the  occasion  of  that  mis- 
directed letter  hung  in  my  head,  and  vexed  me  into  asking  their 
meaning  pointblank.  "Why  did  you  say  some  good  might  come 
of  the  mistake  on  the  letter?"  said  I. 

"Some  good?     When  did  I  say  that?" 

"  At  the  time.  You  said  you  might  make  sure  that  it  should 
not  happen  again." 

"  I  shall,  as  far  as  business  letters  are  concerned ;  unless,  indeed, 
something  happens  before  next  Christmas.  Private  correspond- 
ence will  have  to  take  its  chance,  after  that." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  not  because  I  had  no  guess, 
but  as  an  expression  of  official  ignorance.  Because  he  had  not 
then  declared  any  definite  intention. 

"  Next  year,  my  dear  boy,  the  Inland  Kevenue  and  I  shall  part 
company,  except  for  periodical  reminders  of  its  existence  which 
I  shall  receive  in  common  with  all  persons  with  whom  it  is  on 
visiting  terms.  It  never  forgets  its  old  friends,  though  it  scorns 
the  poor  and  lowly."  He  tapped  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe  and 
refilled  it,  after  which  he  became  less  metaphorical.  "  I  mean 
I  shall  resign,  and  retire  on  my  pension.  That  misdirected  letter 
did  the  job.  It  won't  do  to  run  the  risk  of  blunders  like  that.  I 
shall  be  in  a  state  of  constant  anxiety  until  I  know  my  last  letter 
has  been  delivered  to  the  proper  person."  This  was  a  prosaic 
pause,  between  the  old  pipe  and  the  new.  A  whiff  of  the  fresh 
tobacco  made  him  himself  again.  "  And  Scammony  says  I  must, 
above  all  things,  avoid  anxiety.  Unless  I  particularly  want  to 
develop  those  symptoms,  to  see  what  they  are  like!  I  don't  think 
I  care  to  do  so.  They  seem  uninteresting." 

"  Shall  you  tell  ....   ? "  I  began. 

"Your  stepmamma?  Why — no!  At  least.  I  shall  tell  her  I 
mean  to  resign.  But  there  are  plenty  of  reasons  for  that.  Thirty 
years  is  a  good  stretch  of  public  service.  She  won't  connect  it 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  429 

with  the  visit  to  Scammony.    I  shan't  tell  her  anything  for  another 
six  weeks.    Time  to  forget  a  dozen  doctors!    Two  per  week." 

I  saw  that,  having  said  as  much  as  he  meant  to  say  seriously, 
he  was  relaxing  into  his  former  tone.  He  was  soon  speculating 
as  to  whether,  if  Dr.  Scammony  had  seen  Belshazzar's  tongue, 
he  would  have  been  able  to  check  that  monarch  in  his  downward 
course,  and  enabled  him  to  put  on  moral  flesh  enough  to  cut  a 
better  figure  in  the  balance. 

"  Now  mind,  Master  Jackey,"  said  he  as  we  wound  up  our  gar- 
den smoke  and  went  to  join  Jemima  and  Gracey  in  the  drawing- 
room — they  had  a  visitor  who  would  not  come  out  because  of  the 
night  air — "  now  mind  you  don't  say  a  word  of  this  to  either 
of  them.  They'll  know  all  about  it  in  time.  Only  I  don't  want 
them  to  know  it  yet,  or  they'll  connect  it  with  Belshazzar." 

So  I  kept  my  own  counsel,  stimulated  and  supported  by  my 
sense  of  my  important  position  of  confidence.  I  did  not  even 
speak  of  it  to  Gracey. 

But  I  needed  the  stimulus  and  support,  for  it  became  a  little 
difficult  to  maintain  the  confidence,  seeing  that  I  was  at  best 
a  bad  hand  at  any  sort  of  concealment.  My  stepmother  devel- 
oped suspicions  about  my  father's  reasons  for  paying  a  visit  to 
Dr.  Scammony,  having  only  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  ,the 
affair  of  the  misdirected  letter;  indeed,  she  had  given  very  slight 
attention  to  it  at  the  time.  My  father  had,  however,  in  an  un- 
guarded moment,  let  out  about  his  visit  to  Bernard  Street,  hav- 
ing said  heedlessly  that  he  had  been  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
"  the  Square  "  and  had  found  it  none  too  easy  to  restrain  himself 
from  going  to  see  how  it  was  looking.  "  I  could  just  as  easily 
have  walked  round  that  way,"  said  he,  "  as  waited  for  little  Scam- 
mony, who  broke  his  appointment;  but  I  suppose  it  was  just  as 
well.  It  wouldn't  have  made  me  cheerful." 

My  stepmother  looked  up  from  the  fashionable  marriages  in 
the  Personal  column  of  her  newspaper,  to  say: — "  You  did  not  say 
you  had  been  to  Dr.  Hammond!    What  on  earth  took  you  to  Dr.  . 
Hammond  ? " 

My  father  perceived  his  mistake,  but  no  immediate  chance  of 
correcting  it.  He  took  refuge  in  a  misprision  of  the  obvious 
meaning  of  the  question,  and  replied : — "  A  hansom  cab.  I've 
forgotten  the  number,  but  I  formed  a  good  opinion  of  the  driver." 

Gracey  said  "Why?"  cutting  across  Jemima's: — "Nonsense 
about  hansom  cabs.  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean." 

He  preferred  to  answer  Gracey,  who  seemed  interested  in  the 
cab-driver.  "  Because  when  I  gave  him  one  and  sixpence,  he 


430  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

said  he  wanted  half-a-crown.  I  pointed  out  that  the  legal  fare 
was  a  shilling,  and  he  said  he  was  quite  aware  of  the  fact,  but 
that  he  wanted  a  half-crown  for  all  that  from  natural  cupidity, 
not  as  having  any  claim  for  it.  He  said : — '  You  ask  any  beg- 
gar of  uncommonly  moderate  means  if  he  don't  want  half-a-grown, 
and  if  he  don't  say  yes  he's  a  liar! '  So  I  formed  a  good  opinion 
of  him,  as  he  seemed  to  be  truthful  and  clear-sighted." 

"And,  of  course,  you  gave  him  the  other  shilling?"  This 
was  Gracey,  while  Jemima  waited  almost  audibly  for  the  end  of 
this  nonsense.  It  was  not  her  sort.  My  father  eluded  the  point 
of  whether  the  cabman  got  the  shilling — of  course  he  did  get  it — 
by  going  back  to  the  previous  question — what  on  earth  took  him 
to  Dr.  Hammond's?  "Well — anyhow! — the  cab  took  me  to  Ber- 
nard Street.  But  I  suspect  you  mean — why  did  I  go  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  meant  why  did  you  go !  Why  was  it  ?  Is  any- 
thing wrong  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever.  Never  was  better  in  my  life."  But  my 
father  was  over-stating  his  case,  and  courting  suspicion.  I  saw 
it  in  my  stepmother's  eye  as  she  dropped  the  subject;  dropped  it 
as  it  were  on  the  ground,  and  looked  another  way.  Catechism 
was  useless — so  she  evidently  decided — and  enlightenment  had 
to  be  sought  elsewhere.  I  had  a  prevision  that  "  elsewhere  "  would 
be  in  my  neighbourhood. 

"  Ask  Jackey !  "  said  Gracey,  as  I  entered  the  drawing-room  an 
hour  later.  It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning,  and  she  and  Jemima 
were  having  a  pre-Church  chat,  slightly  tinctured  with  letter- 
writing. 

"  Ask  Jackey  what  ? "  said  I.  "  Only  cut  along  quick,  because 
I'm  just  going  out.'' 

My  stepmother,  as  usual,  good-looking  and  well  in  hand — 
her  own  hand — was  not  disposed  to  give  way  to  coercion.  "  Xot 
if  you  are  in  such  a  hurry.  Another  time  will  do  quite  as  well." 
She  took  up  the  Observer  and  pretended  to  be  interested  in  it. 

"  Do  tell  Aunt  Helen  what  she  wants  to  know,  Jackey, .  and 
don't  be  silly!"  Thus  Gracey,  causing  me  to  take  a  chair  osten- 
tatiously, as  one  who  anticipates  a  prolonged  interview. 

"I  can't  do  any  telling  until  she  says  what  it  is,"  said  I,  with 
aggressive  meekness.  But  Aunt  Helen  was  not  well  disposed 
towards  concession  under  pressure.  She  addressed  Gracey  with- 
out taking  her  eyes  off  the  Observer.  "  Never  mind  now,  Gracey 
dear!  Another  time  will  really  do  just  as  well.  Let  him  go 
now." 

Gracey  accepted  this  as  tactics,  making  no  comment.    She  took 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  431 

upon  herself  the  part  of  parlementaire.  "  Aunt  Helen  wants  to 
find  out,"  she  said,  "  why  Papa  went  to  Dr.  Hammond.  Is  any- 
thing the  matter  he  isn't  telling  us  about  ? " 

As  I  did  not  know  what  he  was  telling  them  about — at  least, 
officially — a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  seemed  to  present  itself. 
"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  I.  But  the  question  was  not  bona 
fide,  and  I  was  not  clever  at  this  sort  of  thing.  I  proceeded  to 
develop  embarrassment  for  myself,  adding  needlessly :  "  How  do 
I  know  what  he's  told  you  1 " 

That  was  fatal.  My  stepmother  laid  the  Observer  down,  say- 
ing to  Gracey,  exactly  as  if  I  had  not  been  in  the  room: — "  You 
see  how  it  is,  dear.  There  is  something,  and  he  hasn't  told  us!  " 

Gracey  accepted  any  negligibility,  making  me  feel  that  I  wasn't 
wanted.  "  Suppose  we  were  to  go — us  two — this  afternoon,  and 
call  on  Dr.  Hammond.  He  would  tell  us." 

Jemima  flushed  up  quite  angrily;  and,  indeed,  this  was  very 
unusual  with  her — she  was  not  given  to  changing  colour.  "  Any- 
thing but  that ! "  she  exclaimed.  And  I  think  Gracey  was  as 
much  surprised  as  I  was.  She  looked  quite  puzzled  for  a  minute 
at  least.  Then  she  said  deprecatingly : — "But  why  not?  He's 
a  very  old  friend.  And  at  any  rate,  he  knows." 

'•  Does  he?  Well,  Gracey  dear,  since  you  think  so  much  of  him, 
you  go  and  see  him  yourself.  I  shall  certainly  not  go." 

"  Suppose  you  and  I  were  to  go  and  talk  to  him,  Jackey.  It 
couldn't  do  any  harm — now,  could  it?" 

I  did  not  fancy  this.  I  think  I  wanted  to  nurse  my  disbelief 
in  my  father's  gloomy  forecast  about  himself.  So  I  said,  with 
masculine  importance,  that  the  Governor  wouldn't  like  that.  My 
sister  surrendered  the  point,  rather  as  though  she  thought  there 
might  be  truth  in  what  I  said. 

"Of  course  not!"  said  our  stepmother,  who  seemed  to  have 
become  quite  heated  on  the  subject.  "  Your  father  would  dislike 
it  extremely.  I  cannot  tell  what  possesses  him  to  pin  his  faith 
on  that  absurd  little  G.  P.  But  he  does,  and  nothing  I  can  say 
is  of  any  use.  The  best  thing  you  young  people  can  do  is  to  per- 
suade him  to  see  a  Specialist — some  man  of  standing — if  he  really 
suspects  there  is  anything  the  matter.  But  do  anyhow  try  to 
persuade  him  against  that  little  humbug  Hammond.  If  he  comes 
down  here  to  see  him  I  shall  simply  leave  the  house."  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  Jemina  so  emue  against  any  one. 

Since  our  migration  to  Chelsea,  my  father's  very  old  friend, 
Dr.  Scammony — that  is,  Hammond — had  remained  his  medical 
adviser,  in  spite  of  the  low  opinion  Jemima  had  of  his  capabilities. 


432  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  never  could  understand  on  what  this  was  founded.  It  was 
quite  unimportant  so  long  as  my  father  continued  a  model  of 
robust  health;  indeed,  so  long  as  one's  medical  adviser  is  not 
called  on  for  advice,  a  night-bell  and  a  thermometer  for  tempera- 
tures, as  insignia,  are  all  that  is  professionally  necessary.  Even 
so  a  submarine  mine  may  do  as  well  on  cottonwool  as  on  gun- 
cotton,  as  long  as  navigation  goes  another  way.  It  is  when  one 
is  called  on  to  explode — or  prescribe,  in  the  doctor's  case — that 
weakness  of  qualification  is  apt  to  show  itself. 

I  suppose  that  Jemima  was  in  the  right  when,  after  a  grudging 
admission  from  my  father  that  he  had  felt  some  uneasiness  about 
his  own  health,  she  protested  against  his  leaving  it  entirely  in 
the  hands  of  Dr.  Scammony,  and  urged  him  to  consult  a  specialist. 
My  father  was  at  least  unconvincing  when  he  replied  that  that 
was  precisely  what  Hammond  had  said  himself,  and  he  should  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  It  seemed  such  a  non-sequitur.  But  I  under- 
stand what  he  meant — that  Dr.  Scammony's  advice  was  a  suffi- 
cient proof  of  his  professional  integrity,  which  my  stepmother 
had  foolishly  impugned,  saying  that  he  was  an  incompetent  little 
prig,  who  only  wanted  to  keep  all  the  fees  for  himself.  If  she 
had  been  content  to  treat  the  question  as  one  of  medical  skill 
only,  and  not  mixed  it  up  with  another,  of  personal  character, 
I  believe  my  father  would  not  have  felt  in  honour  bound  to  take 
up  a  defensive  position.  Gracey  said  about  it,  talking  apart  to 
me : — "  Of  course  Papa  sticks  up  for  Dr.  Scammony.  He  was 
sure  to  do  so." 

This  was  in  the  frequent,  if  not  invariable,  conclave  held  to 
discuss  any  matter  of  great  public  interest  by  myself.  Gracey, 
and  Varnish.  For  man  and  woman  as  we  were  by  now,  my  sister 
and  I  still  held  firmly  to  the  tradition  that  Varnish's  presence, 
as  an  assessor  or  umpire,  was  an  essential  to  the  highest  consid- 
eration of  family  concerns.  If  the  status  quo  had  lasted  another 
ten  years,  I  believe  these  debates  would  have  still  gone  on,  un- 
changed. For  the  weight  of  one's  first  and  only  nurse's  authority 
is  not  a  thing  one's  life  parts  with  easily,  and  Varnish  was  a  sur- 
vival of  the  early  days  at  the  Square. 

*So  that  this  speech,  apart  to  me,  of  Gracey's  about  Dr.  Scam- 
mony was  no  correction  of  what  Varnish  had  just  said  about 
Jemima,  but  rather  justified  or  confirmed  it.  We  both  knew 
that  Varnish  could  not  express  opinions  in  cold  blood  when  any- 
thing our  stepmother  had  said  was  before  the  House.  The  speech 
ehe  had  just  made  was  coloured  by  her  eentiments  towards  her 
enemy,  and  both  of  us  knew  we  might  ignore  these  as  mere  com- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  433 

mon  form.  She  had  said : — "  Some  has  their  reasons,  and  some — 
they  do  without.  And  whether  or  not,  Dr.  Scammony — he's  not 
in  favour.  Not  with  your  stepmar.  Your  pa's  contrariness  itself 
to  that."  To  which  Gracey's  answer,  as  recorded  above,  would 
have  been  no  more  than  an  obvious  comment,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  certain  hesitation  of  manner,  which  might  only  have  been 
due  to  doubt  if  my  father's  partiality  for  Dr.  Scammony  was 
reasonable.  Varnish  understood  it  to  imply  something  else;  at 
least,  I  thought  so.  For  she  took  no  notice  of  Gracey's  text,  and 
returned  to  Jemima.  "  What  was  the  names  she  called  the  doc- 
tor— your  stepmar  ?  "  said  she. 

4<  Aunt  Helen  didn't  call  him  any  names,"  said  Gracey,  at 
a  loss. 

"  No  more  than  what  you  told  me,  just  now  with  your  very 
own  lips,  Miss  Gracey.  Jeepee's  names,  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"  Oh  no,  it  wasn't,  Varnish  dear,  G.  P.  is  initials."  Varnish 
looked  incredulous.  "  It  stands  for  General  Practitioner.  G« 
for  general,  and  P  for  practitioner." 

"  Initials  was  of  no  account  in  my  time,"  said  Varnish.  "  Words 
was  plain  words,  and  what  one  stands  for,  one  as  good  as  says, 
and  on  way  out.  So  your  stepmar's  no  call  for  to  brazen  of  it 
out  that  way.  Only  more  honest  to  say — what  is  it? — General 
Prack  Thingummy  right  off!  Anyhow,  she  said  he  wanted  to 
keep  all  the  fees  for  himself.  That  was  nice,  to  lay  at  his  door! 
And  him  as  often  as  not  forgetting  his  bill  at  Christmas,  unless 
remonstrated." 

I  remarked  that  Dr.  Scammony  was  far  from  being  a  greedy 
little  cuss,  and  Varnish  seemed  appeased.  But  she  matured  and" 
confirmed  her  position.  "  Anyway,  as  I  say,  the  doctor's  not  in 
favour,  and  your  stepmar  she  has  her  reasons."  I  might  have 
fancifully  ascribed  this  to  any  tiff  in  the  past  between  Jemima 
and  Dr.  Scammony,  had  not  Varnish  continued : — "  So  she  would 
any  one  that  could  rake  up.  She  don't  like  talk." 

I  never  should  have  thought  it  possible  to  resent  a  marriage 
with  a  widower  as  Varnish  resented  the  Sly  Cat's  with  my  father. 
I  believe,  however,  that  had  the  latter  never  known  nry  mother, 
my  old  nurse  would  have  been  less  ferocious  towards  her.  Now 
/  should  have  said  that  "  the  Departed  "  would  always  prefer  any- 
thing to  a  perfect  stranger,  as  a  successor.  But  I  know  differ- 
ence of  opinion  exists  on  this  point. 

I  think  my  father's  mind  was  much  easier  when  he  had  taken 
the  final  step,  and  sent  in  his  resignation.  No  mishap  occurred 


434  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

in  his  correspondence,  so  far  as  I  knew,  between  then  and  Christ- 
mas; and  if  it  had,  the  fact  that  he  had  acted  so  quickly  on  a 
first  mistrust  of  his  own  business  powers,  would  have  absolved 
him  from  blame.  He  grew  sad  and  grave  as  the  time  came  on  for 
his  final  farewell  to  the  Office,  where  he  had  worked  for  over 
thirty  years.  I  see  now  that  I  was  wanting  in  sympathy,  but 
the  truth  is  that  Somerset  House  had  been  for  me,  all  my  life, 
so  much  a  mere  matter  of  course,  that  I  failed  to  regard  it  as  hav- 
ing any  qualities  whatever.  I  believe  this  is  intelligible  to  my 
Self.  If  I  had  to  make  it  so  to  another  person,  I  should  try  ask- 
ing him  to  analyze  his  sentiments  towards  the  Lion  and  the  Uni- 
corn, as  a  work  of  Art. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

SOMEWHERE  about  this  time  I  can  see,  looking  back,  that  I 
must  have  crossed  the  frontier  of  manhood,  and  left  the  region 
of  youth — that  one  is  so  eager  to  see  the  last  of,  and  regrets  all 
the  rest  of  the  time — without  encountering  so  much  as  a  douanier 
to  hint  at  a  boundary  on  the  map.  A  sharp  line  was  drawn,  for 
me,  at  the  end  of  boyhood,  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Nebuch- 
adnezzar. It  ended  a  period  distinctly,  but  I  am  not  clear  where 
the  next  began.  However,  succinct  delimitations  are  not  of  the 
essence  of  my  contract  with  my  Self.  I  have  only  promised  to 
write  all  I  can  recollect,  as  nearly  as  may  be  in  order  of  its 
happening. 

At  the  end  of  that  year  I  was  still  subject  to  intermittent  at- 
tacks of  Art;  that  is  to  say,  Art  proper,  with  moddles.  When 
my  work  on  wood-blocks  ran  short,  I  was  well  disposed  towards  a 
spasmodic  visit  to  the  Academy  Schools.  These  recrudescences 
of  nude  and  draped  figures,  of  rickety  easels  and  canvasses  that 
pulled  asquint  if  rashly  overwedged,  of  old  familiar  smells  of  dryers 
and  megilp,  of  new  tubes  of  colour  so  tenderly  reclosed  after  the 
first  squeeze,  so  soon  neglected  and  corner-cricked,  revealing  to 
the  rash  squeezer  the  meaning,  for  instance,  of  Prussian  Blue 
under  the  finger-nails — these  and  a  many  others  were  so  much  res- 
urrection from  the  past,  even  then. 

Or,  it  may  be  that  I  was  Rip  Van  Winkle,  or  even  Lazarus, 
though  I  did  not  get  the  welcome  that  Mary  and  Martha  have 
been  supposed  to  give  their  brother.  On  the  contrary,  suspicion 
and  reproach  were  visible  on  the  faces  of  my  fellow-students.  My 
reappearance  this  time — as  I  suppose  in  January — was  greeted 
with  a  collective  look  askance  from  an  assembly  of  more  faithful 
votaries  of  Art  Education,  and  a  general  remark : — *'  We  thought 
you  weren't  coming  back.''  The  implication  of  manner  was  that 
they  were  downcast  at  the  discovery  of  their  mistake.  The  nearest 
approach  to  a  welcome  was  from  'Opkins,  who  said: — "Back  in 
your  old  'ornts,  I  see,"  in  a  tone  which  left  it  open  whether  he 
was  pleased  to  see  me  or  not.  It  was  not  without  a  sort  of  pride 
that  he  said : — "  You'll  find  us  exactly  the  same.  We  don't  go  in 
for  change  here."  I  can  fancy  the  Matterhora  saying  this,  of 

435 


436  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

himself  and  his  brother  Alps,  not  without  dignity;  but  'Opkins 
had  scarcely  the  same  excuses  for  pluming  himself  on  his  immu- 
tability. The  condition  of  his  wristbands  alone  would  have  dis- 
qualified him. 

Of  course,  the  "  study  "  I  began  was  a  farce,  for  this  was  the 
last  sitting  but  one  of  the  moddle.  I  made  a  parade  of  its  slight 
masterliness — its  momentary  character.  It  was  so  slipshod — had 
so  little  reference  to  the  head  it  was  "  dashed  in  "  from,  or  any- 
thing else;  and  was,  moreover,  so  unsupported  by  any  evidence 
of  imaginative  misinterpretation  on  the  artist's  part,  that  noth- 
ing but  Time — say  a  couple  of  decades — stood  between  it  and  the 
honours  of  Impressionism.  It  is  a  mystery  to  me,  which  will  last 
my  time,  why,  the  moment  that  I  soared  into  the  realms  of  Real 
Art — painting  heads  from  Nature,  to  wit,  especially — I  said  fare- 
well to  accuracy  and  decision.  And  even  more  so  that  I  wel- 
comed, and  was  welcomed  by,  both,  when  I  came  down  from  the 
dizzy  heights  of  Parnassus  to  the  humbler  regions  of  book-prints 
and  initial  letters  for  Momus.  I  wonder  if  any  artist  has  ever 
had  a  like  experience. 

There  was  at  this  time  studying  in  the  school  a  man  who  after- 
wards made  a  reputation  with  his  books  on  Art.  It  was  generally 
predicted  of  him  that  he  would  do  so,  seeing  that  he  had  drawn 
in  the  Antique  School  a  foot  with  six  toes.  "  And  shaddered  'em 
up,  too!"  added  'Opkins,  when  he  told  me  of  the  incident.  He 
went  on  to  say  that  he  thought  it  was  an  'ereditary  pecooliarity 
in  the  heyesight  of  this  gentleman.  But,  he  said,  he  could  read 
'Orace,  and  even  trarnslate  that  author.  This  "but"  appeared 
to  have  some  relation  to  a  mysterious  system  in  'Opkins's  mind 
which  showed  him  the  relative  value  of  human  deficiencies,  and 
their  compensations. 

I  suppose  that  the  reason  I  have  forgotten  this  artist's  name 
is  that  he  was  always  spoken  of  as  "  Pope  Sixtoes."  in  conse- 
quence in  this  error  in  Arithmetic.  It  was  not  Silbermann.  but 
it  was  somehow  the  equivalent  thereof.  I  am  content  to  accept 
Silbermann. 

He  was  a  superior  person,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Art  in  company 
with  a  lot  of  crude  youngsters,  out  of  sheer  humility.  He  was 
very  boastful  about  his  humility,  and  brandished  it  in  a  way 
that  made  every  one  else  seem  bumptious.  He  always  made  it 
understood  that  his  inability  to  draw  or  paint  anything  whatever 
was  a  kind  of  compensation  for — or  rather  Nemesis  of — a  supreme 
knowledge  of  the  theory  and  history  of  Art.  That  he  did  not 
scruple  to  lay  himself  open  to  the  finger  of  scorn,  by  coura- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  437 

geously  mixing  with  the  students  at  the  Academy  as  a  student 
himself,  was  a  proof  how  humble  he  was.  But  he  ran  no  risk 
of  loss  of  caste,  for  he  knew  all  about  the  quattrocento  in  Italy, 
and  could  knock  you  down  with  the  name  of  a  Tuscan  town  or 
artist,  or  the  date  of  a  Grand  Duke,  and  leave  you  helpless,  with- 
out turning  a  hair.  He  always  hung  out  an  Italian  word  or 
two  on  first  acquaintance,  as  a  ship  at  sea  shows  colours.  Not 
that  his  nationality  was  Italian.  He  was  an  Art  Critic.  That 
•was  all. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  he  and  I  were  almost  the  last  two  to 
depart,  after  the  sitting  of  the  moddle  had  come  to  an  end,  Mr. 
Silbermann's  departure  was  delayed  a  moment,  and  a  pince-nez 
was  requisitioned  from  an  inner  pocket  to  enable  him  to  see  my 
masterly  production.  He  hoisted  his  flag,  so  to  speak,  as  he  fished 
for  it,  with  the  inquiry  "Permesso?"  in  a  tone  of  tentative 
courtesy. 

My  Italian  went  that  far.  "  By  all  means,"  said  I.  "  But  it's 
a  flukey  piece  of  rot." 

The  Art  Critic  cooed  a  protest  against  this  harsh  judgment. 
"  We  must  not  say  that,"  said  he,  deprecatorily.  He  repeated 
this  two  or  three  times,  slower  and  slower,  as  he  polished  the 
pince-nez  up  to  critical  examination  point.  That  done,  he  bal- 
anced it  on  a  nose  accommodated  to  a  safe  level,  reminding  me 
of  the  conjurer's  chin  arranging  for  a  plate-spin.  But  the  glasses 
were  still  fulfilling  their  mission. in  life,  while  none  can  dine  off 
a  centrifugal  helping. 

He  contemplated  my  abortion  calmly,  ostentatiously  without 
prejudice,  while  second  hands  ticked  unseen.  Then  without  dis- 
turbing his  conjurer's  balance,  he  turned  his  eyes  round  to  the 
Artist,  asking  with  decision: — u  May  I  say?" 

"  Don't  bottle  up  on  my  account,"  said  I.  Or  did  I  say  it,  or 
only  think  it?  Perhaps  the  latter.  I  am  certain,  anyhow,  that  my 
attitude  was  one  of  cordial  invitation  to  criticism.  "  Do  please 
tell  me  anything  you  see ! "  was,  I  know,  the  substance  of  my 
reply. 

Mr.  Silbermann,  keeping  his  eyes  on  me,  threw  up  the  fingers 
of  both  hands  before  my  study,  and  pushed  its  subject  back,  theo- 
retically. He  would  have  stickled  himself  with  new  paint,  prac- 
tically. "  That  is  what  it  wants,"  said  he. 

"  I  see,"  said  I.    But  I  didn't  see. 

"  More  mystery!  "  said  he.    He  fixed  me  with  his  eye. 

I  pleaded  that  I  had  nursed  an  intention  to  put  in  the  mystery 
at  the  end. 


438  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

His  intelligent  countenance  teemed  with  a  maxim.  "  Art — 
Postpones — Nothing,"  said  he,  in  three  distinct  words.  "  Do  it 
at  once !  " 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  "  It's  getting  late/'  I  said.  "  And  the 
light's  going.  And  they  are  coming  to  lock  up." 

"  Well — well — well !  "  said  he,  softening  the  harshness  of  that 
maxim.  "  We  must  not  be  too  literal.  Suppose  we  say — as  soon 
as  possible  1 " 

"All  right!"  said  I.  "Next  go."  I  then  bethought  me  of 
the  uncertainties  of  life,  and  how  I  might  get  an  order  for  comic 
vignettes  and  initials  to  some  "  Ballades "  my  friend  Bartholo- 
mew had  offered  to  Momus,  and  added: — "If  I  ever  touch  the 
thing  again!  Don't  suppose  I  ever  shall." 

This,  it  seemed,  was  very  sad.  My  new  acquaintance  shook  a 
slow,  reproachful  head,  and  resolved  its  thoughts  into  another 
maxim.  "  Art — Completes — Everything !  " 

A  vision  passed  across  my  mind  then,  and  recurs  as  I  write 
these  words,  of  serried  ranks  of  unfinished  canvasses  hiding  their 
faces  against  the  walls  of  Studios  whose  owners'  names  Fame 
and  I  have  forgotten — Studios  that  have  been  the  witnesses  of 
more  lack  of  purpose  during  the  last  half-century  than  would  have 
been  needed  to  undermine  and  break  up  every  contemporary  scheme 
of  diabolism,  all  those  years  and  more!  What  a  pity  it  could  not 
have  been  employed  on  something  political! 

For  the  moment,  I  drew  no  inference  except  that  Mr.  Silber- 
mann  had  not  lived  among  Artists.  I  found  that  this  was  a  mis- 
take, before  we  parted  half-an-hour  later.  For  it  turned  out  that 
we  were  going  in  the  same  direction,  and  before  we  had  crossed 
St.  James'  Park  he  had  expressed  surprise  that  I  was  unfamiliar 
with  the  inside  of  the  Studios  of  as  many  Artists  whose  work 
was  recognized  by  the  Public  as  I  could  count  upon  my  fingers. 
He  had  also  dwelt  at  length  on  several  Avenues  of  Art  Thought — 
I  borrow  his  own  expression — among  others,  the  Necessity  for 
Mystery,  the  Genesis  of  Vulgarity,  the  Problem  of  the  Intense, 
and  the  Function  of  the  Unintelligible.  I  felt  that  I  was  in 
the  presence  of  an  Analytical  Intellect. 

I  am  writing  all  this  about  Mr.  Silbermann  to  justify  my  Self 
in  my  own  eyes  for  its  subsequent  conduct  towards  him.  Other- 
wise, he  does  not  come  into  my  story. 

We  parted  very  good  friends,  to  all  appearances,  in  Sloane 
Square.  And  we  were  very  good  friends,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. I  think  that,  if  anything,  my  feeling  was  the  more  cordial 
towards  him  owing  to  the  germination  of  an  Idea  which  sug- 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  439 

gested  his  individuality  as  a  good  subject  for  caricature.     I  felt 
that  he  was  going  to  be  of  service  to  me,  and  was  grateful  to  • 
him  by  anticipation. 

I  drew  him  that  evening,  for  Gracey,  under  a  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances which  were  not  likely  to  arise.  They  were  all  more 
or  less  developments  of  the  Idea  which  I  was  going  to  submit 
to  Bartholomew  for  treatment  in  verse  according  to  the  manner 
of  his  contributions  to  Momus  at  that  date. 

Gracey  remonstrated.  "  But,  Jackey  darling,''  said  she.  "  If 
that  is  really  like  this  gentleman — that  one  I  mean  whose  nose 
is  horizontal,  in  a  line  with  his  forehead " 

•'  That's  the  most  like  him.  He  has  to  do  that,  to  keep  his 
glasses  on." 

''Well — if  he  recognizes  it,  won't  he  be  in  a  great  rage?" 

"I  should  think  he  would — most  "likely.  But  he  doesn't  know 
he's  like  that.  He  thinks  he's  like  this — a  thoughtful,  philosophi- 
cal bloke."  I  drew  him  rapidly,  in  another  aspect. 

"  But  won't  he  be  in  a  rage  with  that,  too  ? " 

"In  another  rage?  I  should  say  he  might.  But  it  won't  be 
such  a  ...  such  a  wicious  one."  I  distorted  my  adjective,  as 
more  expressive  of  its  acquired  meaning,  of  spite  or  revenge. 

"  Well,  now ! "  said  Gracey.  "  I  think  if  I  was  in  Mr.  What's- 
his-name's  place  I  should  be  in  twice  as  great  a  rage  about  the 
philosophical  one.  It's  much  more  insulting."  I  expressed  my 
doubts,  and  we  agreed  to  leave  the  point  unsettled. 

Next  day  I  took  these  sketches  to  show  them  to  Bartholomew. 
He  lived  in  a  small  set  of  chambers,  at  the  top  of  a  house  in 
Clipstone  Street,  that  had  seen  better  days.  I  may  have  dreamed 
a  good  deal  of  this  house,  that  I  now  think  bona  fide  recollection. 
I  wonder  whether  there  was  a  bust  of  Minerva  in  a  helmet  in  the 
pediment  over  the  street-door,  or  was  it  on  the  top?  Or  was 
the  pediment  split,  so  that  it  came  through?  The  more  I  think, 
the  more  doubtful  I  get.  But,  oh! — how  long  ago  it  seems! 

It  had  snowed  in  the  night,  and  the  snow  had  softened  the 
hard  heart  of  a  frost,  in  order  that  little  boys  should  have  first- 
class  ammunition.  I  am  glad  now  that  one  of  them  landed  a 
shot  on  the  middle  of  my  back,  as  I  stood  ringing  the  top  bell 
of  a  vertical  regiment.  I  am  glad,  because  he  was  a  very  bad 
little  boy,  and  enjoyed  his  success  so.  I  did  not  like  it  then,  be- 
cause some  snow  got  inside  my  collar.  Now  I  find  myself  hoping 
that  that  bad  little  boy's  grandchildren  are  like  him.  and  always 
hit  when  they  aim.  It  is  odd  to  think  that  probably  no  power 
on  earth  could  identify  now,  for  him,  that  trivial  incident  that 


440  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  remember  so  well,  so  many  years  ago.  And  he  may  have  been 
run  over  by  a  cart  and  killed,  half-an-hour  later. 

The  street  was  musical  with  scraping  shovels,  and  the  wielder 
of  one  of  them,  a  hoarse  person  with  no  shirt,  but  with  a  neck- 
handkerchief  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  impertinent  curiosity, 
took  the  expression  of  public  opinion  on  himself.  What  the  oar- 
thorities  were  about  he  couldn't  think,  allowing  these  here  young 
nippers  all  the  street  to  theirselves,  and  no  notice  took,  whatever 
enormities  they  were  guilty  of.  It  was  all  very  well  that  an  easy- 
going optimism  should  indulge  in  dreams  of  safety  due  to  the 
soft  character  of  compacted  snow,  but  now  supposing  a  piece  of 
jagged  iron,  a  broke  bottle  or  a  hopen  razor  if  you  come  to  that, 
had  been  embedded  in  it  by  malice.  Them  boys  and  their  artful- 
ness! He  would  challenge  the  shrewdest  foresight  to  predict  what 
they  would  be  at  next.  In  that  quarter,  disastrous  failure  awaited 
Prophecy.  Only,  whatever  happened,  let  no  man  turn  round  and 
say  that  he,  the  speaker,  had  kept  silence.  I  had  an  impression 
that  he  continued  in  the  same  strain,  through  the  ringing  scrape 
of  his  contemporaries'  shovels,  long  after  I  had  been  admitted  by 
a  magic  click,  and  found  my  way  up  an  empty  stairway  with 
a  consciousness  of  the  Unseen  keeping  its  eye  upon  me  to  see 
where  I  was  for.  I  am  aware  that  the  language  I  ascribe  to 
the  Unseen  is  elementary. 

My  identity  was  unsuspected*  by  my  friend  within,  who  called 
out  to  me  to  put  the  can  inside.  I  observed  that  the  independent 
door  at  the  stairtop,  which  shut  him  and  the  World  apart,  was 
ajar  and  wavered  suggestively,  as  though  string-pulled.  I  called 
out  might  I  come  in?  and  took  the  answer  for  granted.  I  was 
met  by  a  small  figure  with  a  mass  of  rough  auburn  hair  and  very 
bright  eyes,  and  a  dressing-gown  which  he  was  lashing  together  in 
front  in  a  hurry,  having  evidently  just  jumped  out  of  bed.  "  Hook- 
ey I "  it  said.  "  I  thought  you  were  The  Milk,  late.  Thought 
the  cow  had  refused  to  yield  milk,  when  milked.  ...  If  you  are 
familiar  with  the  vulgar  tongue,  you  will  understand  me  when 
I  say  that  I  am  Not  Up." 

I  understood  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  remarked: — "What  a  lazy 
beggar  you  are.  Bat!  This  time  in  the  morning." 

He  replied  with  dignity: — "You  are  mistaken,  worthy  Sir! 
You  are  mistaken,  good  Gentleman!  You  are  no  doubt  under 
the  impression  that  the  Average  Man,  whom  you  have  seen  sam- 
ples of  this  morning  on  his  way  to  business,  has  a  greater  claim 
to  be  considered  industrious  than  myself.  Don't  deny  it." 

"  Well— it  certainly  does  look.  .  . " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  441 

"  Do  not  be  deceived  by  appearances!  The  Average  Man,  almost 
without  exception,  postpones  work  till  after  breakfast.  Stop  the 
next  example  of  him  in  the  street,  and  ask  it.  Tax  it  with  idle- 
ness, and  convince  yourself  that  what  I  say  is  true.''  As  he  spoke, 
the  little  man  was  gradually  getting  back  into  bed  again,  and 
ended  as  a  head  on  a  pillow — a  singular,  rather  cockatoo-like  head, 
to  which  the  rough  auburn  hair  made  a  crest.  It  continued,  mak- 
ing the  most  of  the  rim  of  its  coverings,  but  leaving  speech  free : — 
"  During  the  mistaken  period  which  has  come  to  an  end — I  refer 
to  my  career  as  an  Artist — I  found  it  difficult  to  work  in  bed. 
Having  now  finally  adopted  Literature  as  a  profession,  I  am  at 
liberty  to  give  the  rein  to  my  natural  desire  for  activity.  Ob- 
serve the  scattered  copy !  And  don't  tread  upon  it !  " 

"  That  means  that  you've  quite  chucked  Art,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Absolutely.  I  believe  I  have  chucked  it  because  the  mouth 
of  What's-his-name — your  friend  at  the  Academy " 

"Hopkins?" 

"  That's  the  character.  Because  his  mouth — or  what  he  calls 
his  mouth — so  closely  resembles  my  own.  Two  stars  keep  not 
their  motion  in  one  sphere,  and  there  is  no  room  in  the  same 
profession  for  two  such  individual  upper  lips."  He  brought  his 
chin  clear  of  its  integument  for  me  to  see,  and  I  certainly  per- 
ceived the  resemblance  to  'Opkins's.  In  both  cases  the  upper 
lip  overhung.  But  the  difference  in  their  import!  Solemnity 
in  'Opkins  was  secured  by  what  bespoke  impishness  in  Bartholo- 
mew; a  moral  maxim  reproaching  levity  in  the  hearer  was  replaced 
by  some  ridiculous  paradox  or  perverse  misinterpretation  of  palpa- 
ble fact.  The  joys  of  disrespect,  not  to  say  impiety,  took  in 
Bartholomew's  countenance  the  place  that  aggressive  duty,  fraught 
with  boredom,  held  in  'Opkins's.  And  yet  the  upper  lips  were 
the  same.  I  sympathize  with  Lavater's  difficulties. 

I  accepted  Bartholomew's  position  as  indisputable,  but  felt 
that  to  throw  up  a  profession  after  giving  so  much  time  and 
labour  to  it  was  an  extreme  step.  "  Couldn't  somebody  assassi- 
nate 'Opkins?"  said  I.  "Let  him  take  his  upper  lip  to  Jericho." 

"  No,  Aristaeus,"  said  my  friend,  addressing  me  by  a  name 
I  had  never  heard  him  use  before.  It  was  like  him  to  do  so,  but 
though  I  was  curious  about  his  selection  of  this  name,  I  accepted 
it  provisionally  in  silence,  and  he  went  on: — "Consider  what 
Society  must  be  in  Jericho.  Consider  the  class  of  persons  that 
have  been  sent  there,  and  spare  Jericho  'Opkins.  Besides,  I  may 
have  been  influenced  by  mere  gain.  I  don't  know.  Literature 
seems  to  hold  out  a  prospect  of  emoluments  to  which  Art  is  a 


442  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

stranger.  Moreover,  in  Art  either  your  work  doesn't  dry,  or 
stinks  of  a  penetrating  nature  abound.  So  consider  that  I  have 
chucked  Art.  You  have  done  so  yourself,  so  you  needn't 
talk!" 

''  I  beg  your  pardon,  Bat.  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  I 
intend  to  go  on  studying  Art — real  Art — at  intervals.  I  was  at 
Trafalgar  Square  only  three  days  ago,  and  made  a  study.  There 
was  an  idiot  there,  by  the  by,  I  want  to  talk  about.  .  .  .  But 
why  did  you  call  me  Aristffius?" 

This  seemed  to  require  reflection.  It  ended,  and  an  answer 
came.  "  It  was  inspiration,  pure  and  simple.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  you  were  taking  Industry  under  your  protection.  Now, 
broadly  speaking,  Industry  is  bees." 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  Aristaeus?" 

"  Much.  Aristaus  had  to  do  with  bees,  and  was  the  father  of 
Action.  Lempriere.  He  became  a  Divinity.  Ditto.  .  .  .  Tell 
me  who  the  idiot  is  ...  the  one  you  spoke  of  just  now." 

"  Oh — Silbermann !  Yes,  to  be  sure.  I've  made  a  drawing  of 
him.  He's  a  good  idiot  to  draw.  You've  seen  him? — at  the 
Schools.  He  seems  to  be  an  old  Student.  Comes  now  and  then 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Nature.  That  sort  of  thing!  I  feel  he  ought 
to  be  drawn,  and  published.  I  want  you  to  write  something  for 
him — in  verse  preferred.  A  sort  of  ballad.  Make  him  an  Art 
Critic.  That's  his  game.  You  should  have  heard  him  criticizing 
my  study.  That's  him,  with  the  glasses."  I  handed  my  note- 
book, open  at  the  place,  for  inspection. 

"  I've  seen  the  beggar — but  not  there — at  the  Club !  Yes — I 
must  get  some  letter-press  for  this  chap.  Is  this  another  of  him  ( '' 

"  Yes,  in  another  aspect.  More  philosophical.  Less  superior. 
Which  would  work  best,  do  you  think?" 

"  I  was  thinking.  .  .  .  No — it's  no  use.  I  must  have  them 
both.  They  are  too  lovely  to  lose,  either  of  them.  .  .  .  Stop  a 
bit!  I  think  I  know."  He  flung  out  of  bed  suddenly,  and  was 
off  in  the  next  room — the  sitting-room — without  stopping  for  his 
slippers,  and  hunting  through  a  mass  of  print  and  manuscript. 
I  remonstrated,  because  of  the  cold,  which  of  course  I  did  not 
feel  as  I  had  my  overcoat  on;  moreover,  I  had  been  walking.  He 
paid  no  attention,  but  hunted  till  he  found  what  he  wanted — a 
.  MS.  Then  he  rushed  back  to  bed,  quite  blue,  with  his  teeth  chat- 
tering, and  shivering  intentionally,  as  a  comment  on  the  ther- 
mometer. "  I  say,  young  feller,"  said  he,  "  suppose  you  make 
yourself  useful !  While  I  look  through  this  to  see  what  I  can 
find,  just  you  look  behind  the  coal-scuttle  in  the  next  room.  There 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  443 

you  will  see  what  was  in  the  heyday  of  its  youth  a  brown  paper 
parcel  containing  one  dozen  Patent  Fireballs.  One  is  left.  Only 
one !  .  .  .  Makes  one  cry,  doesn't  it  ? "  .  .  . 

"  What's  it  for?— to  light  the  fire?" 

"  Exactly.  Instructions  what  to  do  are  on  the  label.  Follow 
them,  and  you  will  find — so  I  am  assured — that  it  will  cause  the 
fire  to  ignite  spontaneously.  When  I  was  at  school  my  old  mas- 
ter used  to  flog  all  the  boys  who  didn't  obey  him  of  their  own 
accord.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  spontaneity  is  equivocal  in  both 
cases.  But  that  won't  matter  so  long  as  the  fire  burns." 

I  found  the  lonesome  Fireball  and  started  the  fire  as  requested. 
Then,  returning  to  the  bedroom,  I  suggested  that  if  I  knew  where 
breakfast  was  to  be  found,  I  could  prepare  it.  Bartholomew  com- 
mented on  the  readiness  with  which  I  adopted  conventional  phrase- 
ology. "  If  breakfast  is  to  be  found,"  he  said,  "  why  prepare 
it  ?  "  He  was  not  confident  that  it  could  be  found,  his  relations 
with  his  tradespeople  being  very  uncertain.  "  But,"  he  added,  "  I 
very  seldom  take  breakfast,  in  the  sense  in  which  that  term  is 
generally  used,  or  abused.  My  industrious  habits  detain  me  in 
bed  until  anything  beyond  a  cup  of  coffee  would  prevent  my 
lunching  with  a  friend  at  the  Club,  which  is  within  five  min- 
utes. I  should  be  sorry  to  deprive  any  friend  of  the  pleasure  of 
giving  me  lunch,  by  a  too  recent  indulgence  of  voracity.  More- 
over, this  regime  stands  between  me  and  extravagance  in  house- 
keeping. Of  course  I  regret,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  am  not  in  a 
position  to  offer  you  anything.  Otherwise  I  cannot  say  I  resent 
the  high-handed  behaviour  of  the  Milk,  in  not  coming.  It  would 
only  have  gone  sour,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  believe  that 
your  familiarity  with  the  vernacular  will  show  you  my  meaning 
when  I  say  that  I  shall  pay  its  account,  and  withdraw  my  custom. 
It  might  be  obscure,  to  a  foreigner.  .  .  .  Here's  the  thing  I  was 
looking  for." 

I  explained  that  my  anxiety  about  breakfast  was  on  his  ac- 
count, not  mine.  The  MS.  he  had  found  was  my  interest.  I  held 
out  my  hand,  saying : — "  Let's  have  a  look !  " 

"  Stop  a  bit ! "  said  he.  "  It  needs  explanation.  It  is  a  tale 
in  verse — rather  juvenile  verse — of  a  pair  of  twins.  Their  name 
was  fortunately  Binns,  to  rhyme  to  twins.  These  things  happen. 
They  had  good  and  noble  characters,  but  erred  in  the  choice  of 
a  profession.  They  devoted  themselves  to  mistaken  objects." 

"What  did  they  go  in  for?" 

"  Felony.  One  of  them  took  over  a  practice  in  the  West  of 
England,  as  a  Highwayman.  The  other — of  a  thoughtful  turn, 


444  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

more  a  student  than  a  man  of  action — addicted  himself  to  For- 
gery." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  cap  fits  Silbermann  ? " 

"Not  Silbermann  considered  as  twins?  Look  upon  this  pic- 
ture and  on  this !  "  He  indicated  the  two  portraits  of  the  Art 
Critic — the  thoughtful  and  the  active  version.  "  Mr.  Silber- 
mann is  not  twins  per  se,  but  he  is  their  equivalent.  His  duality 
is  inherent  in  his  unity.  I  might  cite  a  parallel  case,  but  my 
Keverential  Spirit  stands  in  my  way.  I  am  celebrated  for  my 
Reverential  Spirit." 

"  But  we  can't  make  him  out  either  a  highwayman  or  a  forger." 

"  No.  But  I  can  alter  the  poem  to  meet  the  case.  Nothing 
easier.  I  see  my  way  plainly."  He  paused  reflectively,  then 
added : — "  Not  one  Art  Critic,  but  two  Art  Critics !  "  From 
which  I  inferred  that  his  Reverential  Spirit  was  deserting  him, 

"  Suppose  you  read  me  the  poem  as  it  is,  Bat ! "  said  I.  For 
I  didn't  feel  sure  that  the  change  suggested  would  tell  against 
the  identification  of  its  subjects,  but  the  contrary.  He  then  read 
me  the  verses,  lying  as  completely  in  bed  as  the  need  of  two  hands 
to  hold  the  manuscript  permitted. 

I  can  remember  him,  reading,  better  than  I  can  remember  what 
he  read;  though  I  may  do  that  gradually,  if  I  try.  His  mop  of 
auburn  hair  and  his  gleaming  eyes  would  have  made  him  an  in- 
dividuality without  his  peculiar  upper  lip,  whose  resemblance 
to  'Opkins's  had — according  to  him — modified  his  destiny.  I  re- 
collect feeling  that  one  of  his  nicknames  among  his  friends, 
"  Flittermouse,"  had  a  sort  of  fitness  in  it.  But  this  may  have 
been  due  to  the  last  syllable.  One  knows  the  massive  forehead 
of  a  mouse.  Of  course,  however,  in  him  the  name  was  a  mere 
amplification  of  Bat,  short  for  Bartholomew. 

I  have  tried  since  I  stopped  writing  yesterday  to  recollect  a 
full  sample  of  Bartholomew's  ballad  of  "  The  Twin  Felons,"  but 
I  can  only  recover  a  scrap  here  and  there.  I  recall  the  opening, 
plainly  enough.  Here  it  is: — 

••  August  in  and  Angustus  Binns, 
To  whom  these  lines  relate, 
Commenced  a  joint  career  as  Twins 
In  eighteen  forty-eight " 

The  author  seemed  gratified  with  this,  and,  having  read  it 
twice,  looked  round  at  me  to  say : — "  Reads  easily,  Aristaeus  ?  " 
I  assented,  but  remarked  on  the  date.  It  was  rather  a  late 
period  for  highway  robbery,  with  holster  pistols  and  jack-boots, 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  445 

which  struck  me  as  essential.  Bartholomew  replied  that  the 
Poet's  first  obligation  was  towards  rhyme,  his  second  to  metre, 
his  third  to  meaning;  while  as  for  chronology,  he  was  not  sure 
that  it  came  in  at  all.  He  could,  however,  make  it  twenty- 
eight.  But  the  word  twenty,  just  after  "  twins,"  sounded  poor 
and  mincey.  I  said  it  didn't  matter,  and  he  continued: — 

"  Their  parents  when  they  came  to  choose 

Their  infants'  Christian  names 
Espoused  antagonistic  views, 

And  justified  their  claims.  ..." 

After  which  I  only  remember  scraps.  The  substance,  however, 
remains  with  me.  The  father  considered  that  twins  being  alike 
by  nature,  to  confusion-point,  their  parents  should  distinguish 
their  names  as  widely  as  possible.  He  suggested  "  Timothy " 
and  "  Napoleon "  for  these  two.  Their  mother  was  very  posi- 
tive in  the  opposite  direction,  maintaining  substantially  that 
as  the  same  thing  was  always  called  by  the  same  name,  things 
exactly  resembling  one  another  should  be  called  by  names  as 
nearly  as  possible  alike.  She  was  not  quite  sure  that  the  names 
should  be  more  distinguishable  than  their  owners,  but  yielded 
to  convention  on  this  point.  She  insisted  on  the  adoption  of 
the  two  names,  Augustin  and  Augustus,  which  are  just  short 
of  identity. 

The  children  so  named  grew  to  be  young  men  of  great  prom- 
ise, but  were  ill-advised  in  the  choice  of  a  profession.  For 
though  all  went  well  for  a  while,  disaster  overtook  them  in  the 
end,  and  they  were  tried  and  convicted  at  the  same  Assizes.  A 
doubt  arising  as  to  which  was  which,  the  presiding  Judge  de- 
clined to  pass  sentence.  If  the  names  had  been  accidentally 
reversed,  he  said,  the  forger  might  be  hanged,  and  the  high- 
wayman sent  to  penal  servitude.  If  the  sentences  required  by 
Law  were  the  same  in  both  cases,  it  would  be  immaterial.  He 
could  then  pass  sentence  on  them  as  twins,  and  they  could  suffer 
as  twins.  As  it  was,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  defer  sen- 
tence until  it  was  settled  which  was  which.  And  the  culprits, 
who  alone  knew,  refused  to  make  any  statement. 

"  I  left  it  at  that,"  said  Bartholomew  when  he  had  got  thus 
far.  "I  don't  see  what  else  there  was  to  be  done  with  them." 

"  Commit  them  for   Contempt  of   Court  ? "   I  suggested. 

"  There  was  none.  Each  had  answered  to  his  name,  so  all 
demands  of  Law  had  been  complied  with,  and  it  was  owing 
to  the  stupidity  of  a  gaoler  that  they  got  mixed.  He  ought 


446  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

to  have  earmarked  them  on  the  spot.  Of  course  each  tried  to 
convince  the  Judge  that  he  was  the  highwayman,  as  the  career 
of  a  forger  is  at  best  an  inglorious  one;  let  alone  the  preference 
every  right-minded  man  has  for  hanging,  as  against  penal  servi- 
tude. Moreover,  it  was  obvious  that  only  one  of  them  was  claim- 
ing a  false  identity,  and  it  would  have  been  most  unfair  to  the 
truthful  man  to  throw  doubt  on  his  reputation  as  a  murderer, 
in  favour  of  the  unconfirmed  statement  of  his  brother,  whose 
business  habits  must  have  predisposed  him  to  mendacity."  Bar- 
tholomew paused  a  moment ;  then  said  thoughtfully : — "  The  sub- 
ject bristles  with  difficulties — and  pitfalls.  What  a  curious  thing, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  anything  should  bristle  with 
pitfalls ! " 

I  assented.  But  I  did  not  see  how  this  story  could  be  adapted — 
at  least  without  great  labour,  amounting  to  rewriting — to  the 
career  of  two  Art  Critics;  more  especially  because,  in  our  pres- 
ent imperfect  state  of  civilization,  Art  Criticism  was  not  a  stat- 
utable  offence. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  my  dear  Aris,"  said  the  Poet.  "  Sup- 
pose we  run  the  risk  of  hurting  Silbermann's  feelings.  We  won't 
let  McMomus  have  it  unless  he  takes  all  responsibilities  of  pub- 
lication. .  .  .  Oh  yes — hell  want  it  fast  enough,  I'll  answer  for 
that!"  For  I  had  begun  to  speculate  on  the  possibility  of  rejec- 
tion by  the  journal. 

One  thing  that  has  made  me  revive  so  much  of  this  talk  with 
my  literary  colleague  is  his  sudden  and  whimsical  application 
to  me  of  the  name  Aristaseus,  abbreviated  to  Aris.  He  called 
me  by  it  again  once  in  the  hearing  of  'Opkins,  with  the  result 
of  course  that  he  called  me  'Arris,  expressing  his  surprise  that 
Bartholomew  should  drop  an  H,  with  his  education.  For  'Opkins 
was  indignant  when  he  was  told  he  dropped  his  own,  conceiving, 
I  fancy,  that  the  image  of  the  letter  in  his  mind  would  be  audible 
to  his  hearer  owing  to  his  own  goodwill  towards  it.  I  got  used 
to  the  name  as  a  nickname,  at  the.  Academy,  but  never  elsewhere, 
as  it  chanced;  and  when  I  came  here  it  occurred  to  me  to  be  a 
good  one  to  assume,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  be  known.  The  people 
here  want  a  name  to  speak  of  me  by,  and  this  one  does  as  well 
as  another.  So  I  am  "  Old  Harris,"  even  to  the  Eeverend  Turner. 
He  will  not  count  it  as  deception,  though,  for  he  said  to  me  once : — 
"  A  Pseudonym  is  quite  excusable,  if  it  is  only  meant  as  a  dis- 
tinctive name  in  a  crowd." 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MY  rough  sketches  of  the  highwayman  and  the  forger  were 
greeted  by  the  Editor  of  the  comic  weekly  Momus  with  acclama- 
tion. He  went  by  the  name  of  McMomus;  inevitably,  as  his 
name  was  McMurrough.  I  had  entertained  some  idea  that  I 
might  somehow  abate  the  individuality  of  the  Twins,  to  avoid 
personality,  and  was  rather  disconcerted  when  Mr.  McMurrough 
stipulated  for  close  identification  with  their  original;  which  was, 
he  said,  half  the  battle.  The  said  original  was  claimed  by  him 
as  an  intimate  friend;  but  none  the  less,  as  a  fool;  a  triumph 
of  the  handiwork  of  his  Creator,  whose  status  as  a  maker  of 
Fools  the  grossest  materialist  could  not  dispute. 

I  felt  quite  guilty  when  I  was  next  greeted  by  Mr.  Silbermann. 
at  the  Academy.  For  was  I  not  actually  engaged  in  portraying 
him  both  as  a  highwayman  and  a  forger.  I  should  have  felt 
grateful  to  him  if  he  would  have  been  rude  and  disagreeable, 
so  as  to  justify  the  appropriation  of  his  image.  He  was,  on  the 
contrary,  irritatingly  courteous;  and  when  in  the  end  he  asked  me 
to  come  and  lunch  with  him  at  his  club,  I  felt  that  the  position 
was  becoming  formidable. 

In  my  embarrassment  I  sought  advice  from  Gracey,  who  at 
first  refused  to  treat  the  matter  seriously,  which  perhaps  was  my 
own  fault,  for  although  I  wanted  advice  to  get  me  out  of  my 
deadlock  it  seemed  humiliating  to  confess  it,  and  I  endeavourgd 
to  make  light  of  my  position  even  while  I  was  anxious  to  lay 
stress  on  its  difficulty.  She,  however,  soon 'read  between  the  lines 
of  my  communication,  but  not  by  the  help  of  anything  I  said. 
Her  blue  eyes  detected  something  in  my  countenance,  and  I  can. 
see  her  face  again  now,  as  pity  comes  into  them  suddenly,  and  takes 
the  place  of  mere  unconcerned  laughter. 

"  Why,  you  poor  darling,  silly  boy ! "  she  said.  "  I  do  really 
think  you're  feeling  it  in  your  tummy."  Which  was  an  old  famil- 
iar mot  de  famille,  which  may  have  been  indigenous.  Its  mean- 
ing goes  painfully  home  to  me  now,  all  the  more  perhaps  that 
I  have  never  heard  it  since  those  days,  so  long  ago. 

''  Well ! "  I  said,  with  as  much  admission  as  consisted  with 
male  superiority.  "It  is  an  awkward  fix,  now  isn't  it?" 

447 


448  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Gracey's  commiseration  for  me  became  quite  as  active  as  could 
be  countenanced  by  dignity.  "Yes,  darling!"  said  she,  kissing 
me  and  ruffling  my  hair.  "  It  is  rather  a  fix.  Suppose  we  ask 
Papa  what  he  thinks  ? " 

"  Suppose  we  do ! "  said  I,  magnanimously  ignoring  what  I  rec- 
ognized as  a  slight  elder-sisterliness.  I  gave  Gracey  leave  to 
broach  the  subject  in  any  way  she  chose. 

"  What  sort  of  chap  is  Mr.  Silbermann  ? "  said  my  father  that 
evening,  when  the  case  had  been  laid  before  him.  "Is  he  the 
sort  of  chap  that  sees  a  joke? " 

.  "  No,"  I  replied.     "  That's  just  it.     He's  one  of  your  solemn 
beggars." 

"  I  think  he  must  be  some  one  else's,"  said  my  father.  "  Be- 
cause I  don't  stock  the  article.  However,  I  understand  that  he 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  you  can  take  into  your  confidence.  Other- 
wise that  is  the  course  I  should  have  suggested." 

"  I  can't  fancy  myself  doing  it,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion. "Besides,  look  at  this!  Suppose  I  show  him  the  drawings 
and  he  flares  up.  I  should  have  to  back  out,  and  do  others  in- 
stead." 

"  I  see,"  said  Gracey.  "  You  would  stand  committed  to  doing 
so,  by  asking  him.  I  should  say — don't  ask  him,  but  brazen  it 
out." 

I  shook  my  head.  "You  wouldn't  say  that,  G.,  if  you  saw 
what  a  dignified  sort  of  bloke  he  is,  and  what  good  manners  he 
has."  This  evidently  puzzled  Gracey,  so  I  tried  elucidation.  "  Well 
— he's  a  sort  of  grown-up  person!  You  know  what  I  mean." 
Gracey  evidently  didn't,  nor  did  my  father.  I  concluded : — "  His 
giglamps  alone  are  too  many  for  me." 

"  Your  line  of  description,"  said  my  father,  "  suggests  an 
irtiage  to  the  mind.  The  only  question  is — is  it  the  image  you 
mean  to  suggest  ? "  He  picked  up  my  sketches  of  Mr.  Silber- 
mann, and  considered  them.  "  I  see  a  certain  consistency  be- 
tween the  two.  But  it  strikes  me  that  when  you  omit  his  gig- 
lamps,  as  you  call  them,  you  will  be  quite  safe.  I  don't 
suppose  he  will  recognize  himself  without  them,  or  any  of  his 
friends." 

I  shook  my  head  continuously  and  emphatically.  "  No,  go !  " 
I  said.  "  Not  the  ghost  of  a  go !  I  meant  to  leave  them  out  on 
the  highwayman's  nose,  but  Bat  and  McMomus  said  it  would 
spoil  everything.  They  had  seen  the  first  sketch  with  the  glasses 
on,  and  were  nuts  on  it.  They  said  a  short-sighted  highway- 
man was  half  the  battle.  And  you  must  have  the  Twins  alike 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  449 

in  all  respects,  except  that  one  must  b.e  dressed  like  a  highway- 
man and  the  other  like  a  forger." 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  dress  the  forger  ? "  said  my  father. 
"  It  seems  to  me  you  may  find  it  difficult  to  make  him  recogniza- 
ble. Do  all  forgers  dress  alike?  Costume  was  never  a  strong 
point  of  mine." 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  "  that  I  should  dress  him  like  a  parson  that 
had  been  turned  out  of  the  Church." 

li  Do  they  all  dress  alike  ?  " 

"  Well — perhaps  not  exactly.  But  you  know  the  sort  of  thing 
I  mean?  Not  like  a  Squire,  nor  a  Lawyer,  nor  a  Doctor.  Much 
more  like  a  squelched  Parson,  only  not  so  threadbare.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Gracey?" 

Gracey  compared  the  models,  mentally.  "  I'm  not  sure,"  she 
said.  "  Oughtn't  he  to  look  more  prosperous  ?  Because  if  forg- 
ing didn't  pay,  nobody  would  ever  go  on  ^ith  it.  Besides,  as 
Papa  says,  they  would  not  all  dress  alike — or  not  necessarily." 

"  I  didn't  mean,"  said  my  father,  "  to  speak  positively.  Merely 
a  surmise !  Do  Murderers  dress  alike,  as  a  rule  ? " 

We  looked  at  each  other  doubtfully.  No  one  could  speak  from 
experience.  "  What  does  Aunt  Helen  think  ? "  said  Gracey.  My 
stepmother  was  deep  in  the  daily  press,  not  joining  in  the  con- 
versation. 

"Yes,"  said  my  father.  "What  do  you  think,  Helen?  Do 
Murderers  dress  alike — male  Murderers  ?  " 

Now  I  think  the  reason  I  find  all  the  foregoing  so  authentic — 
for  very  little  of  it  can  be  called  reconstruction — is  that  the  inci- 
dent which  followed  was  vivid  enough  to  fix  its  antecedents  in 
my  recollection.  Even  at  this  distance  of  time  the  scared  look 
on  my  stepmother's  handsome  face  is  fresh  in  my  mind  as  she 
drops  the  Post  in  her  lap  and  exclaims,  with  large,  frightened 
eyes  fixed  on  my  father: — "What  on  earth  are  you  talking  of, 
Mr.  Pascoe?  .  .  .  Yes — who  said  Murderers?" 

"  God  bless  me,  my  love ! "  said  my  father.  "  What's  all  the 
shine  for?  /  said  Murderers.  Why  shouldn't  I  say  Murderers? 
We've  been  talking  about  Murder  in  connection  with  some  of 
Jackey's  drawings.  Nobody  has  murdered  anybody,  at  present. 
Nobody's  mare's  dead." 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Jemima,  apolgetically.  "  I  didn't 
mean,  what  set  you  off  on  such  an  unpleasant  subject?  Oh  dear; 
I  wonder  what  has  made  me  so  nervous  and  fanciful ! "  She 
pressed  her  fingers  on  her  closed  eyes,  and  took  them  off  to  look 
at,  as  if  she  thought  the  lids  might  have  come  off  on  them.  "  I 


450  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

wasn't  listening — that  was  all!  ...  No — my  pulse  is  all  right. 
But  feel  it,  by  all  means,  if  you  want  to."  For  my  father  had 
gone  across  to  her,  and  appropriated  her  wrist,  with  intent.  I 
should  have  seen  that  this  upset  about  nothing  made  him  very 
uneasy,  even  if  he  had  not  recently  talked  once  or  twice  to  me 
about  his  misgivings  that  my  stepmother  would  injure  her  nervous 
system  with  some  anodyne  she  had  been  indulging  in  to  get 
sleep.  His  investigation  of  the  pulse  ended  in  his  saying : — "  No — 
that's  all  right.  Quite  normal.  You're  a  queer  customer,"  and 
going  back  to  his  armchair.  She  said : — "  I  told  you  so !  "  and 
took  up  the  Post  again.  But  I  don't  believe  she  read  it. 

A  freak  of  Memory  cuts  events  short  at  this  point,  and  I  can- 
not remember  how  we  settled  about  the  Twins.  I  am  even  with 
her  again  an  hour  later,  in  my  father's  library  over  a  wind-up 
smoke.  He  can  only  talk  of  Jemima's  nervous  system,  and  the 
previous  speculations  over  Murderers  and  Forgers  are  forgot- 
ten. 

"Your  stepmamma,  Jackey,  is  a  very  foolish  woman.  I  can. 
tell  you  that.  This  all  comes  of  her  getting  no  sleep  o'  nights. 
And  if  I  could  only  get  her  to  take  advice,  a  few  shillingsworth 
of  doctor's  stuff  would  set  her  all  to  rights  in  no  time.  Instead 
of  which  it  appears  that  she  buys  any  chance  abomination  she 
sees  on  a  chemists'  counter,  and  takes  it  without  my  knowing. 
Scammony  says  those  things  are  the  very  devil.  .  .  .  Yes — I've 
talked  to  him  about  her. 

"  Just  what  I  tell  you — that  those  sleeping  draughts  and  ano- 
dynes give  temporary  relief,  and  make  matters  ten  times  worse 
in  the  end.  Then  the  nerves  break  down  altogether,  and  the 
constitution  breaks  up  altogether,  as  like  as  not.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  she  would  see  some  one.  Not  Scammony,  as  she  has 
some  fancy  against  him,  but  some  proper  man  for  a  case  of  this 
sort." 

"Has  he  any  ideas  about  the  cause  of  it?" 

"  Dr.  Hammond  ?  He  may  have,  but  he  won't  say  anything. 
He's  a  cautious  bird,  for  all  that  he  looks  as  if  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  his  mouth.  However!"  This  was  a  way  my  father  had 
of  dismissing  a  subject,  and  he  further  showed  that  he  had 
done  so  by  embarking  on  an  abstract  speculation  as  to  whether 
an  incautious  bird  would  look  as  if  butter  would  so  melt,  and 
how  it  would  show  itself. 

I  gathered  that  he  had  been  seeing  Mr.  Scammony,  probably 
i  about  himself.  So  I  asked  him  what  professional  experience  had 
been  telling  him  about  his  own  health. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  451 

"  Oh — I'm,  all  right !    I'm  to  go  on  with  the  diet,  of  course." 

"  Because — why  ?  " 

"  Merely  as  a  prophylactic.     Merely  as  a  prophylactic." 

"  Oh — merely  as  a  prophylactic  ?  " 

"  No — I  really  am  perfectly  right.  I  could  do  with  much  less 
sleep  than  seems  inevitable  nowadays.  I  never  used  to  sleep  so 
ferociously  at  the  Office — in  the  old  days.  I  suppose  it  is  only 
that  I  had  so  much  more  to  keep  me  awake — in  the  old  days.  I 
tell  you  this,  Master  Jackey,  and  you  may  as  well  keep  it  in  mind, 
in  case  you  are  ever  an  influential  man.  No  Government  arrange- 
ments will  ever  be  perfect  until  some  way  is  invented  of  employ- 
ing men  who  are  no  longer  fit  for  work — some  sort  of  carts  for 
horses  to  pull  that  have  to  be  taken  out  of  harness.  One  doesn't 
take  kindly  to  doing  nothing,  even  when  one  is  not  fit  for  doing 
anything  else." 

I  could  not  help  feeling  that  perhaps  the  harness  had  been 
thrown  off  prematurely  in  his  case.  But  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
say  so,  as  it  certainly  would  not  have  bettered  matters.  I  could 
only  take  refuge  in  general  sympathy,  and  a  vague  indictment 
of  all  Governments  as  idiotic. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  that,"  said  my  father,  laughing.  "  But 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  instead  of  giving  pensions,  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  that  an  official  should  die  out  gradually,  with 
a  lessening  salary  and  diminishing  responsibility.  I  know  there 
would  be  difficulties,  because  it's  no  easy  matter  to  convince  an 
old  cock  that  he  doesn't  know  better  than  everybody  else.  But 
it  ought  to  be  possible  to  quench  him  slowly,  for  his  own  sake. 
I  could  make  a  very  good  abstract  now,  or  throw  another  man's 
rough  sketch  of  a  letter  into  working  form,  quite  as  well  as  when 
I  was  a  juvenile  with  a  low  salary.  And  I  shall  be  good  for 
copying  clerk's  work  for  years  to  come.  Why  should  I  be  com- 
pelled to  enjoy  a  leisure  I  don't  the  least  appreciate,  simply  be- 
cause I  am  no  longer  fit  for  a  leading  part?  An  old  actor  dies 
in  harness,  if  only  as  a  walking  gentleman.  Old  doctors — old 
dentists — who  ever  hears  of  their  retiring,  short  of  ninety-odd? 
Did  any  one  ever  know  of  a  Judge  being  interrupted  by  senility? 
\Vhile  as  for  Bishops! — surely  a  superannuated  Bishop  is  a  con- 
tradiction in  terms.  The  more  venerable,  the  more  episcopal! 
No — nobody  ever  retires,  except  Officials,  and  soldiers  and  sailors. 
And  Officials  are  the  worst  off  of  the  three,  because  they  are  ex- 
pected not  to  swear.  The  two  other  sorts  may  swear,  and  do.  I've 
heard  'em." 

My  father  ran  on,  dwelling  on  the  drawbacks  of  retirement, 


452  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

but  always  in  a  good-humoured  strain,  without  bitterness.  I  had 
before  this  observed  that  he  was  very  sleepy  through  the  day,  and 
became  chatty  in  the  evening.  The  theory  that  office-work,  in  old 
times,  kept  him  awake,  would  hardly  hold  water.  His  sleepiness 
in  the  day  had  a  well-marked  character  of  its  own ;  it  never  yielded 
to  any  rousing  influence.  Mere  desoeuvre  laziness  does  more;  it 
welcomes  it.  Just  before  bedtime,  over  his  last  pipe,  he  would 
be  more  himself  than  at  any  other  hour  of  the  day.  I  suppose 
that  at  this  time  I  was  beginning  to  feel  more  uneasiness  on  his 
score  than  previously,  as  I  associate  with  this  evening  a  conscious- 
ness that  this  fact  was  borne  in  upon  me,  then  and  there.  I  con- 
templated an  alliance  with  Jemima,  in  her  efforts  to  induce  him. 
to  see  a  specialist,  which  she  persevered  in,  while  refusing  to  con- 
sult one  about  her  own  sleeplessness.  It  occurred  to  me  that  I 
might  prepare  the  way.  "  1  say,  P,"  said  I,  "  would  it  be  such 
a  bad  idea  if  you  were  to  let  that  bigwig  have  a  look  at  you — Dr. 
Scammony's  bigwig  that  he  talked  about?  It  couldn't  do  any 
harm,  and  he  must  know  something  about  the  matter."  I  re- 
garded this  as  a  generous  concession  to  a  profession  whose  igno- 
rance of  Therapeutics  is  proverbial. 

"  Sir  Alcibiades  Rayson  ?  I  would  do  so  with  pleasure,  my 
dear  boy,  if  it  were  not  for  a  conviction,  founded  on  long  ex- 
perience, that  no  man  survives  a  consultation  with  a  specialist 
more  than  a  twelvemonth.  If  the  specialist  calls  in  another 
to  help,  I  should  say  the  probable  duration  of  the  patient's  life 
would  be  six  weeks  at  most.  A  third  would  mean  sudden  death. 
No — at  present  I  am  not  developing  any  symptoms  whatever;  in 
fact,  I  am  neglecting  my  opportunities.  All  I  say  is,  don't  hurry 
me,  and  I  shall  live  to  a  ...  well — perhaps  not  to  a  green  old 
age!  Suppose  we  say  a  whitey-brown  old  age,  and  let  it  go 
at  that!" 

I  did  not  like  his  way  of  envisaging  his  own  mortality,  and  in 
my  eyes  the  only  question  was  about  the  colour  of  that  old  age. 
I  wanted  badly  to  pooh-pooh  Death,  in  his  particular  case.  I  could 
not  go  so  far  as  that.  But  I  could  shift  the  venue  of  the  conrer- 
sation.  I  began  saying: — "Jemima " 

"  Your  stepmamma,"  said  he,  with  very  slight  protest. 

"  Grizzles  awfully  about  it,"  said  I,  finishing  my  sentence  to 
suit  either  designation.  "  She  says  you  are  sacrificing  yourself 
to  an  absurd  prejudice  against  medical  advice." 

"Oh,  that's  to  be  the  way,  is  it?  Well;  next  time  she  says 
that,  you  tell  her  that  stepmammas  that  live  in  glass  houses 
shouldn't  throw  stones.  If  she  will  let  Scammouy  prescribe  for 


THE  NARKATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  453 

her,  and  take  his  medicine,  I'll  see  Sir  Alcibiades.  You  may  tell 
her  that,  Master  Jackey.  Understand  ?  " 

I  gathered  that  discussion  of  the  point  by  the  principals  con- 
cerned was,  in  his  view,  no  longer  efficacious  to  any  good  end, 
and  nodded  my  acceptance  of  the  embassage,  saying  briefly, 
"  All  right — I'll  say  so  next  time,"  meaning  next  time  talk  gave 
me  a  chance.  No  particular  opportunity  came  about,  and  it 
seemed  easier,  as  it  turned  out,  to  take  Gracey  into  my  confi- 
dence. A  male  who  does  not  see  his  way  always  consults  "  the 
weaker  sex." 

Gracey  said  at  once: — "What  a  good  idea!  We  shall  kill  two 
birds  with  one  stone.  Now,  Jackey,  you  let  me  manage  Aunt 
Helen.  Don't  you  cut  in  and  spoil  it."  As  I  did  not  feel  at 
all  sure  that  I  should  manage  Aunt  Helen,  I  gave  the  under- 
taking asked  for. 

Varnish  was  always  pessimistic  about  anything  that  involved 
her  bete  noire,  so  I  was  not  surprised  to  see  silent  incredulity  in 
her  face  when  Gracey,  sitting  on  the  table  before  the  fire  in  her 
sanctum — for  this  was  during  a  Parliamentary  Debate — spoke 
with  such  confidence  of  her  own  ability  to  influence  her  step- 
mother. I  was  a  little  surprised  when,  Gracey  having  been  called 
away,  she  allowed  a  personal  feeling  to  influence  her  speech  about 
Jemima's  peculiar  antipathy  to  medical  treatment.  I  told  her 
flatly  that  I  thought  the  Governor  was  just  as  bad,  or  worse. 
I  think  I  can  write  the  conversation  that  followed,  word  for  word, 
beginning  with  Varnish. 

"  No,  Master  Jackey,  all  wrong  you  are !  In  your  pa's  eye, 
a  medical  man's  a  medical  man,  and  comes  when  sent  for.  Your 
stepmar  goes  by  its  being  Dr.  Scammony,  and  partick'lar." 

"  Do  you  suppose  then,  Varnish,  that  Jemima  would  let  another 
doctor  have  his  whack?  Is  it  only  because  her  back's  up  against 
little  Scammony?" 

Varnish  was  waxing  a  thread  on  beeswax  held  in  her  teeth.  She 
stopped  seesawing  it  in  the  groove  it  had  cut — and  stopped  also 
the  counter-seesaw  of  her  head — to  nod  the  latter  and  say  through 
the  wax:— "And  Dr.  Partnership  that  he's  took  up  with.  Only 
not  so  bad.  Dr.  Scammony  he's  the  one  gives  offence." 

"  I  know  she  hates  the  old  boy.    But  Wliy  ?  " 

"Ah— why  and  wherefore?  Well,  Master  Jackey,  I'm  saying 
no  more  than  I've  said  twice  and  once,  afore  this.  So  I  say  it 
again.  A  doctor  gentleman  sees  more  than  he  says,  coming  in 
and  out  of  a  house,  and  making  free.  And  when  it's  between 
Dr.  Scammony  and  not  Dr.  Scammony,  your  stepmar  she  says 


454  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

soonest  not.  That's  the  most  I  say,  Master  Jackey.  And  you'll 
see.  You'll  get  her  to  have  another  doctor,  if  that  will  satisfy 
your  par.  But  not  Dr.  Scammony !  Not  she !  " 

I  never  could  understand  at  that  time  why  Varnish  should 
always  fight  shy  of  a  clear  indictment  of  the'  Sly  Cat.  The  real 
reason  may  have  been  the  same  °-s  mine  for  leaving  unspoken 
a  speech  I  could  have  formulated,  somehow.  I  could  have  said: — 
"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  Jemima  wanted  to  marry  the  Gover- 
nor all  along?"  But  it  stuck  in  my  utterance  by  anticipation. 
It  was  not  from  delicacy  towards  the  Sly  Cat  at  all,  but  an  unde- 
fined respect  for  my  father.  Yet  I  wanted  Varnish  to  be  explicit, 
as  I  see  now  unreasonably,  while  I  shrank  from  expressing  the 
same  idea  myself.  She  was  more  mysterious  than  ever,  this  time. 
And,  indeed,  I  did  not  find  that  lapse  of  years  made  speech  about 
my  mother's  death,  and  the  incidents  that  followed  it,  any  easier. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  I  entered  the  drawing-room  where  Gracey 
and  my  stepmother  were  alone  together,  Gracey  said: — "Here  he 
is.  Ask  him  yourself,  Aunt  Helen."  Which  caused  Aunt  Helen, 
who  was  reading  the  Comhill  tentatively,  turning  the  leaves  to  find 
an  interesting  passage,  to  close  the  number  and  give  attention  to 
current  event.  "  Ask  him  what  ?  "  she  said.  "  Oh  yes — I  remenv 
her!  Gracey  says,  Jackey,  that  your  father  has  promised  to  see 
Sir  Alcibiades  Rayson  if  I  consent  to  letting  that  odious  little 
Hammond  man  prescribe  for  me.  She  says  he  said  so  to  you, 
in  the  library." 

"That's  what  he  said.  Only  he  meant  you  were  to  take  the 
prescriptions.  No  cheating!" 

"Of  course!  Silly  boy!"  said  Jemima,  absently,  looking  hand- 
some, but  vexed  and  perplexed.  And  Gracey  said: — "Of  course, 
Jackey,  that's  part  of  the  game." 

"  Well !  "  said  I.    "  How  was  I  to  know? "    The  point  dropped. 

My  stepmother  said,  still  with  that  perplexity  on  her  face: — 
"Did  he  really  mean  a  promise,  or  was  he  only  talking?" 

"  He  was  quite  in  earnest,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  I  said. 
"  If  you  would  see  Scammony,  he  would  see  Sir  Alcibiades  What's- 
his-name."  I  was  stopped  by  Gracey  saying: — "Hush — there  he 
is ! "  And  thereupon  my  father  came  in,  and  as  her  ears  had  been 
sharp  and  detected  him  in  time,  we  succeeded  in  talking  about 
the  Confederates  and  Stonewall  Jackson  plausibly,  so  that  he 
did  not  know  he  himself  had  just  been  on  the  tip  of  our  tongues. 
I  saw  no  reason  why  we  should  not  have  tackled  the  subject  then 
and  there,  but  took  Gracey's  word  for  it. 

However,  a  few  days  later,  she  said  to  me: — "  I  shouldn't  wonder 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  455 

if  that  was  Dr.  Hammond."  She  referred  to  an  indisputable 
doctor's  carriage  which  was  being  sent  on  from  the  opposite 
house  to  ours.  "  He's  never  been  here  before,  you  know,"  she 
continued.  "Isn't  it  funny?" 

"  Well,  no ! "  said  I.  "  Considering  how  Jemima  hates  him. 
I  suppose  she  and  the  Governor  have  squared  it." 

"  I  don't  know  if  that's  the  way  to  put  it  exactly,"  said  Gracsy, 
looking  through  the  window  at  the  doctor,  now  arriving.  "  Any- 
how, Papa  has  committed  himself  to  see  the  specialist.  I  .hope 
Aunt  Helen  means  to  be  good,  and  follow  Dr.  Hammond's  treat- 
ment. I'm  afraid,  you  know,  she'll  only  promise  and  then  throw 
away  his  medicines  " 

"  That's  her  little  game,"  said  I,  confidently.  This  was  in 
the  upstairs  room,  formerly  Roberta's  and  Miss  Evans's.  I  had 
converted  it  to  a  workroom  for  myself,  and  called  it  my  Studio. 
But  though  I  had  established  an  easel  there,  to  be  for  a  sign, 
I  had  never  used  it  for  any  Real  Art.  I  had  not,  however,  been 
able  to  ignore  my  connection  with  it  altogether,  and  had  covered 
the  lower  half  of  the  window  with  an  opaque  blind,  just  high 
enough  to  compel  Gracey  to  stand  on  tiptoe  to  see  Dr.  Scam- 
mony's  arrival.  Her  image  comes  back  to  me  now,  with  its 
circle  of  sunny  brown  hair  against  the  light,  and  brings  back 
the  green  baize  screen,  whose  mission  was  to  keep  alive  the 
memory  of  Michelangelo,  neglected  for  caricatures  that  could 
have  been  executed  just  as  well  without  it.  At  the  time  I  was 
drawing  Augustus  Binns,  forging.  I  was  shutting  my  eyes  to 
the  mauvais  quart  d'heure  in  store  for  me  when  the  time  came 
for  publication. 

Gracey,  who,  when  at  home,  fluctuated  between  this  work- 
room and  the  drawing-room,  where  the  piano  was,  went  away 
to  show  cordiality  to  the  doctor.  "  I  can't  trust  Aunt  Helen 
to  be  civil  to  him,"  said  she.  "  At  least,  she'll  be  lofty  and 
freezing,  and  the  little  man  doesn't  deserve  it."  And  off  she 
went. 

She  returned  later  and  told  me  of  the  interview,  of  which  I 
saw  nothing  myself;  for  I  knew  I  should  not  be  wanted,  and 
kept  away.  Besides,  I  was  busy.  So  was  Augustus  Binns — so  busy 
that  he  was  unconscious  that  the  police  had  come  for  him. 

Gracey  was  a  very  good  narrator  of  event,  and  I  think  I  can 
resume  her  story.  She  had  gone  straight  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  found  Dr.  Scammony  reading  Wordsworth.  He  put  this  book 
back  with  its  fellows,  she  said,  as  though  he  had  been  caught 
plagiarizing. 


456  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Not  seeing  my  way  to  anything  original,"  she  continued, 
"  I  took  refuge  in  the  fact  that  Aunt  Helen  would  be  down  in 
a  minute;  only  I  didn't  say  Aunt  Helen — I  said  Mrs.  Pascoe. 
I  urged  him  to  sit  down,  as  if  delay  in  doing  so  might  have 
serious  consequences.  When  I  had  got  him  safe  on  a  chair, 
stroking  his  chin  and  staring  at  me  as  though  I  were  a  sort  of 
specimen,  I  thought  I  would  venture  on  a  bold  flight,  and  said : — 
'  You  are  not  looking  a  year  older,  Dr.  Hammond.'  He  replied : — 
'Who — me? — well!  I  looked  a  good  age,  certainly,  seven  years 
ago.  I  haven't  grown  younger,  though,  with  time.  ...  Yes,  it's 
nearly  eight  years  since  your  mother  died.  You  haven't  seen  me 
since  those  days.'  I  had  it  in  my  head  to  say  that  this  was  be- 
cause I  had  never  been  ill.  But  he  was  looking  serious,  and  I 
felt  kept  in  order. 

"  Then  it  crossed  my  mind  that  he  would  not  necessarily  identify 
Aunt  Helen.  .  .  .  Oh  yes — I  know  it  was  a  mistake;  but  I  made 
it,  for  all  that.  I  said  bluntly: — 'I  suppose  you  know  that  my 
stepmother — she'll  be  down  in  a  minute — is  the  same  as  Miss 
Evans,  our  governess  ? '  He  answered : — '  Oh,  of  course,  of  course ! ' 
rather  as  if  he  meant  did  I  take  him  for  a  fool.  Then  he  sat 
looking  at  me  reflectively,  and  presently  said : — '  Let  me  see ! — 
you  were  Gracey,  and  one  of  your  sisters  had  gone  away  with 
Miss  Evans,  to  some  play-acting,  somewhere.' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  said.  '  To  Roehampton.  To  the  Graypers'.  That  is 
her  name  now.  She  was  the  heroine,  and  she  married  the  hero. 
They  live  at  Kingston.'  I  felt  rather  offended  with  the  little 
man  for  not  showing  more  interest  in  this. 

"  Then  he  seemed  hard  up  for  something  to  say,  and  kept  on : — 
'  Yes — Miss  Evans.  Miss  Evans — yes,'  in  a  idiotic  sort  of  way. 
However,  he  thought  better  of  it,  I  suppose,  and  pulled  him- 
self together,  saying  all  of  a  sudden: — 'Mrs.  Pascoe  has  had 
nights — your  father  tells  me?' 

" '  She  can't  sleep  a  wink,'  said  I,  and  began  talking  about 
Aunt  Helen's  lying  awake;  merely  for  something  to  say,  because 
he  was  bound  to  have  it  all  over  again  as  soon  as  she  came.  He 
sat  and  nodded  like  a  Mandarin,  until  he  heard  Aunt  Helen 
coming,  and  stopped.  '  There  she  is,'  I  said,  '  coming  down  now.' 

"  She  was  rather  stiff  and  short  with  him,  I  thought,  seeing 
that  it  was  no  fault  of  his  that  Papa  sent  for  him.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  can't  recollect  exactly  what  she  said,  but  it  was  what  I  should 
call  miffy." 

"What  sort  of  miffy?"  I  asked.    For  I  was  curious  to  know. 

"  Much-enduring    miffy,"    said    Gracey.     "  Acquiescence-under- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  457 

compulsion  miffy.  I've-got-to-answer-and-I-suppose-I-must  raiffy. 
That  sort  of  miffy !  " 

"  I  see,"  I  really  did,  being  accustomed  to  complex  adjectives  of 
this  sort.  "And  what  did  little  Scammony  say?" 

"  All  the  usual  things." 

"  Pulses — tongues — I  know.  But  didn't  he  say  something  about 
the  Governor? " 

"  Not  a  word.  But  I  fancy  he  was  just  going  to,  when  he 
thought  of  something  else." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  When  he'd  got  his  sheet  of  note-paper  to  write  his  prescrip- 
tion, he  pretended  he  had  forgotten  something,  and  looked  up.  I 
said: — 'Isn't  there  ink?'  He  said  there  was  plenty  of  ink,  only 
he  supposed  perhaps  he  ought  to  mention.  Aunt  Helen  said  men- 
tion what? — and  he  finished  writing  his  prescription.  Then  he 
said : — '  Only  a  matter  of  form  in  this  case.  At  least,  I  hope  so. 
Mental  uneasiness.  Frequent  cause  of  insomnia.  Any  mental 
uneasiness? ' 

"  Only  Mr.  Pascoe's  health,'  said  Aunt  Helen,  rather  reproach- 
fully. And  I  think  the  little  man  deserved  if,  for  he  might  have 
known.  He  saw  that,  for  he  began  excusing  himself  out  of  it." 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked.  Not  that  I  was  very  curious  to 
know.  I  was  in  fact  very  much  engaged  on  Augustus  Binns,  and 
was  talking  slackly. 

But  Gracey  took  my  inquiry  in  earnest.  "What  did  he  say?" 
said  she.  "  I  think  I  can  recollect.  I  know  I  thought  it  capital 
excuse-making.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know!  First  he  said  Papa  was  all 
right,  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  needn't  fidget  about  that.  Then  he  tried 
for  something  better.  He  said "  Here  Gracey  became  con- 
scientiously thoughtful. 

"  Cut  along,"  said  I. 

"  He  said : — '  Besides,  I  understood  that  this  sleeplessness  was 
of  very  old  standing.  Mr.  Pascoe's  is  quite  a  recent  trouble.' 
Aunt  Helen  said : — '  Quite  recent.  But  I  did  not  say  of  very  old 
standing.'  He  said — and  I  think  it  was  this  put  Aunt  Helen's 
back  up: — 'I  beg  pardon.  I  thought  I  understood  it  was  as  old 
as  when  you  were  in  Mecklenburg  Square.'  Aunt  Helen  quite 
snapped  at  him.  Oh  dear,  no! — it  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  '  Who 
told  you  that,  Dr.  Hammond  ? '  He  didn't  look  frightened — I  sup- 
pose he  gets  used  to  fierce  patients — and  said : — '  I  had  it  from  Mr. 
Pascoe.  He  quoted  his  married  daughter,  Mrs.  Grayper,  as  his 
authority,  and  told  me  a  funny  story  about  your  talking  in  your 
sleep.  .  .  .'" 


458  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  Of  course,"  I  said.  "  I  remember  that.  I  mean  I  remember 
Bert  talking  about  it.  I  told  the  Governor — don't  you  recol- 
lect ? — when  Jemima  was  on  the  sofa.  .  .  ." 

Gracey  remembered  this  conversation,  which  I  feel  sure  I  have 
written  down  in  this  narrative,  or  some  of  it:  "  What — about  the 
hot-cross  buns  being  Windsor  soap !  "  said  she.  "  Yes — I  rec- 
ollect. Well,  Papa  must  have  told  Dr.  Scammony  about  that. 
And  it  made  Aunt  quite  angry." 

"Because  it  made  her  look  like  a  fool,  I  suppose?" 

"  No — silly  boy !  Because  it  looked  as  if  Papa  had  been  saying 
she  always  had  bad  nights,  and  it's  only  just  lately.  At  least, 
I  suppose  that  was  it.  Anyhow,  Aunt  Helen  was  quite  annoyed 
about  it." 

"  And  he  didn't  look  scared,  or  apologized  ?  " 

"  No — he  sat  looking  at  Aunt  Helen  as  if  he  was  considering 
her." 

"  What  a  cheeky  little  beggar  he  is,  after  all !  " 

"  I  shouldn't  put  it  that  way,  Jackey.  It  was  only  a  mistake. 
.  .  .  This  one's  the  last  picture  of  the  lot,  isn't  it?  What  are 
those  things  on  the  shelf  ? " 

"  Those  ?  Bottles.  Bottles  of  stuff  used  in  forging.  Are  they 
indistinct?" 

"  I  didn't  make  out  what  they  were.    I  see  now." 

"The  woodcutter  will  make  them  a  little  clearer,  if  I  explain 
them.  She's  very  clever  at  that.  I  always  tell  her  she  could  do 
just  as  well  without  anything  drawn  at  all.  I  shall  take  this  one 
myself  to  the  shop,  and  explain  it." 

"Are  they  all  girls  that  cut  the  blocks?" 

"  This  one's  a  girl.  A.  Addison.  That's  her  name.  There 
are  two  others,  only  one  of  them  isn't  a  girl — she's  a  female — 
what  one  understands  by  a  female." 

"What  a  ridiculous  boy  you  are!     What's  A.  Addison  like?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  matters.  What  is  she  like  ? "  I  had  to 
cogitate  over  this,  and  at  last  saw  my  way  to : — "  Well — her 
hair  comes  down  and  gets  in  her  way  when  she's  at  work." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  No — her  nose  is  marked." 

"On  the  tip?" 

"  Well — not  so  far  off,  if  you  come  to  that."  I  had  not  touched 
my  own  nose  to  locate  A.  Addison's  disfigurement,  but  to  bring 
noses  as  it  were  on  the  tapis.  "  It's  not  a  bad  mark,  but  you  see  it 
when  you  look  for  it,  for  all  that !  " 

"  Oh — you  do  look  for  it  then  ? "    I  suppose  I  evinced  discom- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  459 

fiture — scarcely  resentment — or  Gracey  would  not  have  said,  as  I 
distinctly  recollect  her  doing: — "There! — he  shall  have  his  little 
A.  Addison,  he  shall,  and  he  shan't  be  teased!  Only,  Jackey  dear, 
do  tell  me  what  colour  her  eyes  are?" 

I  began  to  say,  somewhat  warmly : — "  She  hasn't  got  any  eyes." 
But  reservation  was  necessary.  "At  least,  not  in  that  sense! 
They  aren't  any  colour — in  particular." 

"Grey,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh  yes — grey  if  you  like.     Anything." 

"  I  suppose  she's  got  hands  ?  " 

Now  the  fact  was  I  had  called  more  than  once  at  Knotter's 
workshop,  on  fair  enough  pretexts  perhaps,  but  always,  after  the 
first  time,  with  a  distinct  prevision  of  A.  Addison's  hands,  which 
were  comely,  and  deft  to  put  back  hair  that  got  in  her  way  when 
she  was  at  work.  So  I  had  a  sneaking  desire  to  talk  about  one  of 
them  at  least — the  left  one.  "  Of  course  she's  got  hands,"  said 
I.  "  Two.  One  of  them  to  keep  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes !  " 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Gracey,  with  that  curious  insight  into 
my  mind  which  I  fancy  I  have  referred  to  before.  Then  I  recol- 
lect that  Varnish's  voice  inquired  for  Miss  Gracey  without,  where- 
upon Miss  Gracey  called  to  her  that  she  was  in  my  room ;  and, 
when  she  appeared,  continued: — "Do  come  in,  Varnish,  and  hear 
about  A.  Addison,  who  has  a  mark  on  her  nose,  and  whose  hair 
comes  down  and  gets  in  her  way." 

"  Law  there  now !  "  said  Varnish.  "  If  I  didn't  think  it  was 
going  to  be  Miss  Featherstone  Haw ! "  I  write  the  name  thus 
because  this  was,  I  am  sure,  Varnish's  way  of  spelling  it  mentally. 

"Oh  no,  Varnish!  Why — she's  freckled!  You  don't  care  for 
Lucy  Featherstonehaugh — now  do  you,  Jackey?" 

"Which  is  Lucy?"  said  I.  "The  boniest,  or  the  boniest  but 
one?" 

"  Xow  you're  pretending,  and  I  shan't  talk.  .  .  .  No — do 
tell  Varnish  about  A.  Addison,  and  don't  be  sprocketty." 

I  itemized  my  account  of  A.  Addison,  but  without  greatly  in- 
teresting Varnish,  who  was  preoccupied.  She  said  to  Gracey, 
across  my  particulars: — "Your  stepmar  she's  put  out  with  the 
doctor,  and  she  don't  think  she's  coming  down  to  dinner  to-night, 
and  it's  odds  but  she'll  go  to  bed."  Gracey's  attention  was  taken 
off  A.  Addison,  and  she  said : — "  Oh — I  was  afraid."  To  which 
Varnish  replied : — "  Yes.  He's  disagreed  with  her — he  has." 
And  they  talked  of  something  else. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

MEMORY  takes  me  back  to  those  days  of  my  early  manhood,  with 
its  fiction  of  anchorage  to  a  rock  I  had  split  upon,  in  the  ocean 
of  High  Art;  its  reality  of  a  successful  embarkation  in  a  much 
less  pretentious  vessel,  on  a  sea  that  I  affected  to  consider  a  mere 
duck-pond  by  comparison.  Or,  perhaps,  I  should  rather  say  an 
estuary  into  which  I  had  drifted  on.  the  high  tide  of  a  chance 
good  fortune,  for  the  turn  of  which  I  must  watch,  to  be  carried 
back  to  the  fulfilment  of  my  true  destiny,  the  use  of  oil-paint 
on  colossal  canvasses,  the  interpretation  of  Mythology  and  History, 
Acis  and  Galatea,  and  Henry  the  Eighth  and  Cardinal  Wolsey — 
that  sort  of  thing! 

I  am  sure  I  had  no  misgiving,  as  I  walked  up  Long  Acre  the 
day  after  Dr.  Scammony  "  disagreed  with  "  Jemima,  that  the  tide 
of  that  estuary  would  never  turn  me  back  to  the  sea  of  that 
vague  world-fame  I  had  conceived  myself  entitled  to,  backed  by 
Mrs.  Walkinshaw.  I  regarded  the  wood-blocks  of  my  pictorial 
additions  to  Bartholomew's  tale  in  verse  as  incidents  by  the  way, 
things  the  World  would  laugh  at  and  forget.  Until  one  day  the 
biographer  of  a  great  painter  would  discover  their  back  number  of 
Momus  in  a  British  Museum  exploration,  and  discern  therein  the 
hand  that  afterwards  gave  us  something  or  other  he  would  be 
polysyllabic  about  to  his  heart's  content.  Whereupon  the  World 
would  wonder  at  the  insignificance  of  the  twig  the  bird  clung 
to,  and,  if  in  a  right-minded  mood,  would  marvel  at  the  mysterious 
ways  of  Providence. 

I  suppose  it  was  one  of  them  that  took  me  to  Knotter's,  the  wood 
engraver's,  that  morning.  Only  I  cannot  see  that  any  other  way, 
leading  to  totally  different  results,  would  have  been  a  particle 
less  mysterious.  Some  of  the  intelligible  ways  of  Providence 
ought  to  be  scheduled,  for  comparison.  However,  that  has  no 
connection  with  the  matter  in  hand.  I  did  go  to  Knotter's,  bearing 
in  my  hand  the  wood-block  I  had  just  completed  of  Augustin  Binns 
forging,  because  I  had  some  instructions  to  give  the  cutter  that 
could  not  be  conveyed  in  writing.  I  must  needs  laugh  at  my  Self, 
or  my  Self  at  me,  as  I  write  these  words.  Is  it  true,  then,  that 
it  was  quite  impossible  to  give  my  instructions  in  a  letter? 

460 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  461 

Knotter's  was  in  the  middle  of  a  fog,  when  I  got  there;  and  the 
fog  was  making  Knotter  choke,  in  the  person  of  his  representa- 
tive. He  himself,  whoever  he  was,  had,  I  believe,  long  been  beyond 
the  reach  of  London  fogs,  however  much  he  may  have  suffered  from 
Stygian  gloom — a  poor  substitute  at  the  best,  not  the  real  thing 
at  all !  ' 

Mr.  Straight,  the  representative,  could  not  tell  me,  for  choking, 
whether  I  should  find  Miss  Addison  at  work.  But  I  took  a  move- 
ment of  his  pen  towards  the  penetralia  beyond  to  mean  at  least 
that  I  could  see  for  myself,  and  I  found  my  way  over  a  cat 
towards  the  most  inaccessible  stairway  I  have  ever  known,  before 
or  since.  It  was  like  the  turret  stair  in  a  Norman  ruin  that  weak 
characters  allow  guides  to  goad  them  up  to  see  the  views.  Only 
that,  in  that  case,  when  the  tread-corner  is  worn  away  to  the 
diagonal  of  its  section,  and  what  was  a  stair  has  become  a  slide, 
the  fact  that  it  is  solid  stone  accounts  for  what  is  left;  while, 
in  this,  speculation  was  at  a  loss  to  supply  imagination  with  any 
better  foothold  than  empty  space.  It  was,  however,  substantial 
enough  for  some  hammer  in  a  hand  long  dead  to  have  driven 
tacks  into;  for  oil-cloth  of  incredible  age  covered  in  what  once 
were  treads  and  risers,  and  left  speculation  and  imagination  to 
make  the  best  they  might  of  the  support  beyond.  If  this  were  a 
book,  I  should  not  feel  free  to  write  so  much  about  an  old  stair- 
case, but  it  pleases  me  to  do  so  because  it  expresses  what  I  have 
so  often  longed  to  express  about  the  means  which  I  have  been 
supplied  with  for  getting  upstairs,  and  coming  down. 

I  got  up  these,  with  a  stumble  or  two,  and  found  a  door-panel  to 
knock  at.  I  can  distinctly  remember  standing  there  in  the  dark, 
hoping,  without  admitting  it,  that  A.  Addison  was  there,  hand 
and  all.  I  felt  that  Miss  Procter,  her  supervisor  in  the  cutting 
of  blocks,  would  be  a  wet  blanket;  even  though  equally  competent 
— indeed  more  so — to  take  an  exhortation  or  instruction  as  to  a 
method  of  rendering. 

"  Come  in ! "  cried  a  girl's  voice  from  the  other  side.  It  was 
not  the  sort  of  voice  one  expects  to  come  out  of  a  London  fog. 
Also,  it  wasn't  Miss  Procter's.  I  knew  that.  But  it  might  be 
one  of  the  apprentices — one  of  the  alumna  of  the  art  of  block- 
cutting.  I  hoped  not,  because  it  was  a  voice  I  should  have  liked 
A.  Addison  to  have.  ITot  that  I  admitted  it.  I  was  inwardly  dis- 
claiming any  interest  in  A.  Addison,  all  the  time,  without  sus- 
pecting my  disclaimer  of  being  self-accusation.  I  opened  the  door 
furtively,  and  the  voice  said  again,  "  Come  in !  "  with  a  sort  of 
elongation  of  the  words,  as  though  to  add  force  or  encouragement. 


462  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

or  finish  to  a  rough  sketch.  I  went  in,  and  there  was  A.  Addison, 
by  herself  3  She  was  intent  upon  her  work,  and  I  suppose  thought 
I  was  some  sub-auxiliary  who  had  been  told  always  to  knock. 

I  began,  "I  beg  your  pardon —  '  and-  she  looked  round, 
startled;  and,  doing  so,  overturned  the  small  standard  gas-lamp,  fed 
by  an  elastic  tube,  which  had  been  concentrating  its  Cycjops  eye 
on  her  field  of  vision. 

"  Never  mind !  "  said  she.  "  Nothing's  broken."  And  as  she 
reconstituted  the  lamp,  the  glare  of  it  crossed  her  oval  face,  with 
the  eyes  that  were  no  definable  colour,  and  the  loose  hair  that 
got  in  them.  As  Gracey  was  not  there  to  convict  me,  I  looked 
without  scruple  for  the  mark  on  her  nose.  There  it  was,  sure 
enough!  Only  it  was  a  very  small  scar,  much  smaller  than  my 
first  memory  of  it.  I  preferred  not  to  admit  to  myself  that  I  was 
glad.  Discipline  had  to  be  maintained. 

"What  a  thundering  light!"  said  I,  with  a  bad  choice  of 
language.  For  the  light  had  swept  across  my  face.  I  never  sus- 
pected A.  Addison  of  taking  a  peep  at  me.  It  is  extraordinary 
what  non-human  creatures  some  young  men  credit  girls  with 
being. 

A.  Addison  stood  and  looked  inquiringly  at  me,  merely  deflecting 
that  wandering  hair  into  its  place.  If  I  had  been  told,  then,  that 
I  was  glad  that  rounded  girlish  figure  had  kept  so  upright  in  spite 
of  constant  stooping  over  wood-blocks,  I  should  have  repudiated 
the  accusation  with  angry  contempt.  Now,  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
was  not.  "  Were  you  looking  for  Miss  Procter?  "  said  A.  Addison. 

"  Well — I  was !  But  I  expect  you'll  do  just  as  well.  I  wanted  to 
say  something  about  this  block."  I  busied  myself  untying  the 
string  of  its  parcel,  and  was  awkward  over  it. 

"  Let  me  do  it,"  said  A.  Addison.  "  I  shall  do  it  quicker  than 
you.  .  .  .  There !  "  The  very  pretty  hand  that  had  nestled  into 
a  corner  of  my  memory,  helped  by  another  as  deft  as  itself,  had 
taken  the  package  from  me  and  got  at  my  block  before  I  could 
vouch,  untruly,  for  the  relenting  of  the  knot.  "  It  wasn't  just  com- 
ing." she  added.  And  we  both  laughed,  and  I  began  to  like  A. 
Addison  very  much.  She  was  answering  my  expectation.  Why 
had  I  an  expectation?  I  know,  now,  fifty  years  later. 

I  began  a  long  lecture  on  the  exigencies  of  block-cutting;  how 
on  no  account  was  any  shade  to  be  expressed  by  hatching;  even 
if  I  hadn't  drawn  every  line;  how  the  lines  must  be  cut  to  their 
full  width,  and  not  fiddled  away  and  refined.  In  fact,  if  there  was 
a  feeling  of  sniggles  and  jags  now  and  then,  as  if  they  had  been 
done  with  a  chopper,  I  should  be  just  as  well  pleased.  Likewise 


THE  NAKKATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  463 

I  expressed  an  abhorrence  of  tint-cutting,  and  spoke  as  if  tint- 
cutters  would  all  come  to  a  bad  end. 

"  All  right !  "  said  A.  Addison.    "  Won't  you  sit  down  ? " 

I  felt  a  little  embarrassed.  What  was  I  to  sit  down  about,  so 
near  as  I  was  to  exhausting  my  subject?  However,  I  was  relieved 
when  she  continued : — "  Because  if  you  will,  I'll  ask  if  the  proof 
isn't  ready  of  your  other  block — it  must  be  yours? — the  highway- 
man in  spectacles,  you  know." 

I  confessed  to  the  highway  man,  and  sat  down  with  a  clear  con- 
science. A.  Addison  departed  down  the  rickety  stairs,  and  I  sat 
there  and  thought  how  pretty  her  feet  must  look  going  down  them. 
Presently  she  came  back  with  the  proof.  She  was  so  sorry,  she 
said,  that  Kate  Somebody — I  think  the  name  was  Haggerdorn — 
wasn't  there  to  hear  my  criticism.  "  She  cut  it,  you  know  .  .  . 
Oh  no,  7  didn't.  But  I  daresay  I  shall  cut  this  one,  because  she's 
going  to  marry  a  man  named  MacDonald."  I  perceived  that  this 
did  not  point  to  any  special  influence  of  this  name,  but  only  to  the 
probable  preoccupations  of  the  lady's  approaching  nuptials.  I 
found  as  much  fault  as  I  could  with  the  print,  and  expressed  an 
ureasonable  expectation  that  I  should  find  A.  Addison's  own  work 
much  more  sympathetic.  Meanwhile  the  fog  got  thicker.  No 
other  woodcutter  appeared,  and  I  thought  it*  would  be  becoming  to 
express  regret  at  the  absence  of  the  ruling  spirit,  Miss  Procter. 
I  was  really  very  glad  she  wasn't  there.  What  did  I  care  for  Miss 
Procter  ? 

"  She'll  not  come  to-day,"  said  A.  Addison.  "  She's  kept  away 
by  the  fog.  So  are  the  others,  I  suppose.  I  get  here  easily,  be- 
cause the  omnibus  passes  my  door." 

"  Then  you  have  to  walk  up  from  Charing  Cross  ?  " 

"  Then  I  have  to  walk  up  from  Charing  Cross."  I  felt  un- 
grateful to  the  omnibus,  which  seemed  to  have  carried  the  con- 
versation into  an  insipid  country.  But  a  rescue  was  at  hand. 
"  I  shall  get  home  quicker  walking,  if  this  fog  keeps  like  this," 
said  the  girl.  I  felt  really  indebted  to  that  fog. 

"  How  far  have  you  to  go  ? "  I  asked,  quite  naturally.  Indeed, 
the  question  called  aloud  for  asking;  it  would  have  seemed  almost 
uncivil  not  to  want  to  know. 

"To  my  house?" 

"  To  your  house." 

She  stood  considering,  with  the  two  hands  that  were  of  so 
much  interest  to  me  resting  their  fingers  in  company  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  she  had  not  taken,  but  hiding  the  thumbs. ,  What 
little  things  I  find  I  remember!  She  was  bent  on  not  overstating 


464  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

that  distance,  apparently.  "It  isn't  three  miles,"  said  she. 
"  Because  it's  only  four  to  Putney." 

"  Then  it's  an  awfully  long  way,"  said  I.  Which  seemed  to  me 
a  legitimate  conclusion,  though  I  don't  see  why,  now. 

"  Perhaps  the  fog  will  clear."  She  accepted  my  standard  of 
consecutiveness. 

"  But  suppose  it  doesn't !  " 

"  Oh— I  shall,  get  home  all  right." 

The  thought  that  hovered  on  the  outskirts  of  my  mind  was 
a  daring  one.  So  daring  that  it  only  remained  there  a  few  seconds. 
It  flew  in  and  took  possession.  "  I  say,"  said  I,  "  I  am  going 
exactly  the  same  way." 

"  I've  been  out  in  much  worse  fogs  than  this."  A.  Addison's 
indescribable  eyes  looked  straight  into  mine  with  perfect  frank- 
ness. "  But  it  would  be  nice,  of  course.  Usually,  there's  Kate, 
and  we  go  together,  because  she  lives  with  her  mother  at  Putney. 
But  now  it's  nothing  but  Captain  Macdonald."  I  should  put  in 
little  explanatory  bits,  for  plausibility,  if  this  were  not  an  exact 
record  of  a  talk  I  remember  well — written  down  to  please  myself, 
not  for  any  one  else  to  read. 

Anyhow,  neither  party,  at  the  time,  suspected  unintelligibility. 
It  seemed  quite  plain  bailing,  a  few  minor  points  calling  for  ad- 
justment. A.  Addison  was  not  due  to  depart,  and  the  fog  might 
clear.  Very  likely  the  sun  would  be  shining  in  an  hour,  and 
then  the  buses  wouldn't  be  crawling.  This,  I  said,  would  exactly 
suit  me,  as  I  had  to  call  at  a  shop  in  Holborn  to  buy  some  joint- 
dividers.  This  purchase  had  nothing  to  do  with  butcher's  meat, 
but  belonged  to  one  of  those  shagreen  outfits  that  are  called  com- 
pass-cases. I  had  dropped  my  "  pair  of  compasses,"  and  it  had 
stuck  in  the  ground  and  spoiled  both  its  points.  This  side  issue 
seemed  somehow  to  make  my  arrangement  with  A.  Addison  con- 
crete and  definite,  while  a  solemn  compact  that  if  the  sun  came 
out  I  should  consider  the  programme  cancelled,  put  an  end  to  any 
idea — or  would  have  done  so  had  any  such  idea  been  conceivable — 
that  anything  in  the  personnel  of  A.  Addison  was  responsible  for 
my  offer  of  an  escort.  I  was  to  be  very  obliging;  that  was  the 
keynote  of  the  performance.  And  we  were  both  bound  over  to 
prayer  that  the  fog  might  clear,  that  I  might  be  relieved  from 
the  irksome  duty  of  going  back  to — well! — not  to  a  martyrdom, 
certainly,  in  view  of  those  hands  and  other  items  already  scheduled, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  pair  of  lips  I  had  just  taken  stock  of,  and  the 
two  rows  of  teeth  that  lived  behind  them. 

Oh,  how  I  broke  faith  about  that  prayer,  and  prayed  that  that 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  465 

fog  should  become  absolutely  solid !  How  anxious  I  felt  once  when 
a  gleam  came,  and  whips  began  to  crack  and  wheels  to  take  heart 
of  grace !  Not  that  I  admitted  my  anxiety.  Oh  dear,  no !  I  was 
even  hypocrite  enough  to  hope  that  Miss  Addison  wouldn't  have  to 
wait  long  for  a  'bus.  I  hoped  it  aloud,  in  order  to  allow  of  no 
doubt  about  my  sentiments. 

However,  the  fog  had  only  cleared  a  little  to  get  a  fresh  start, 
and  by  the  time  I  had  bought  my  joint-dividers  and  reached  Drury 
Lane  on  my  way  back,  it  was  most  gratifyingly  rich  and  juicy, 
and  I  was  overjoyed  to  see  the  public  suffering  from  strangulation. 
Its  bronchial  cough  left  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  my  offer  to  see 
A.  Addison  safe  on  her  way  home  had  its  origin  in  pure  philan- 
thropy. I  could  not  be  expected  to  exclude  such  finger-tips  and 
eyelashes,  and  so  on,  from  the  benefits  of  a  good-natured  impulse, 
merely  because  they  belonged  to  a  young  lady  whose  name  I  hardly 
knew.  I  regret  to  have  to  write  that  I  sheltered  myself  from  my 
conscience  behind  that  slight  scar  on  A.  Addison's  nose.  I  re- 
called to  mind  that  Adeline,  now  a  memory  of  a  remote  past,  had 
an  unblemished  nose.  How  could  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of 
Adeline  be  materially  affected  by  a  nose  with  a  flaw  on  it? 

Its  owner,  in  a  grey  merino  dress  and  a  warm  fur  jacket,  was 
just  coming  out  of  Knotter's  as  I  turned  down  the  Court.  "I  was 
on  the  point  of  giving  you  up,"  she  said.  "  Only  it  stopped  clear- 
ing and  got  black  again.  You  see,  it's  just  as  I  said.  The  omni- 
buses will  have  to  crawl.  Besides,  there  won't  be  any  room  at  this 
time  of  day.  All  the  people  are  going  home  at  once." 

It  was  Saturday,  and  we  all  know  what  that  means.  In  those 
days  there  was  no  District  Railway  to  Sloane  Square.  Even  the 
Metropolitan  was  only  an  unfulfilled  promise. 

"Where  do  you  really  live?"  I  said.  For  I  had  never  had 
definite  information. 

"  Parsons  Green.  That's  how  I  came  to  know  that  you  were 
the  son  of  Mr.  Nathaniel  Pascoe,  at  The  Retreat." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  knew." 

"  Because  I  didn't  tell  you.  I'm  sorry.  Now  you'll  have  to  take 
my  word  for  it.  I  knew  because  of  this.  When  they  sent  us  the 
first  block  to  cut — for  Momus — I  heard  it  was  drawn  by  ... 
a  gentleman  of  your  name.  Well! — it's  not  a  common  name — 
now  is  it? " 

"  I  suppose  it  isn't.    But  I'm  so  used  to  it,  you  see.!' 

"  I  wonder  if  everybody's  name  sounds  exactly  the  same  to  them. 
It  ought  to."  This  was  a  thoughtful  speculation  by  the  way,  which 
the  speaker's  lips  dropped  a  conversational  smile  to  consider. 


466  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Her  next  words  were : — "  Take  care — don't  let's  get  run  over."  For 
we  had  to  negotiate  St.  Martin's  Lane,  and  nothing  was  visible  ten 
feet  off.  But  we  could  only  have  been  walked  over  at  the  best,  or 
worst.  Responsible  horses  seemed  to  be  sending  their  frivolous 
drivers  on  in  front,  with  detached  carriage  lamps  to  attract  the 
attention  of  other  responsible  horses  coming  the  other  way.  Link- 
boys  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  piece  of  tarred  rope  were  catch- 
ing joyously  at  opportunities  of  misleading  wayfarers  for  two- 
pence. Waifs,  who  did  not  know  where  they  were,  were  supplicat- 
ing strays  to  tell  them,  and  were  only  eliciting  a  sort  of  analysis 
of  Space  from  the  latter,  when  disinclined  to  admit  ignorance. 
It  is  very  hard  to  determine  one's  whereabouts  a  priori. 

However,  we  got  across  alive,  and  I  picked  up  the  lost  thread  of 
our  talk.  "  You  were  saying,"  I  said,  "  about  Parsons  Green, 
and  why  you  knew  my  father  lived  at  The  Retreat." 

"  Why  of  course !  "  said  A.  Addison,  stopping  to  say  it,  and  look- 
ing at  me.  "  Because  I  was  thirteen  when  the  new  people  went  to 
live  at  The  Retreat;  when  my  grandfather  gave  it  up." 

lt  Your  grandfather !  " 

"  Yes — only  he  isn't  really  my  grandfather.  He's  my  great 
uncle.  We  can't  call  him  that.  So  we  always  say  grandpapa. 
Well — when  I  told  him  you  had  drawn  a  block  for  us  to  cut — the 
last  one,  you  know ?" 

"  The  highwayman  ?  " 

"  In  spectacles.  Yes.  We  talked  about  whether  it  was  that 
Mr.  Pascoe.  And  he  said  not  very  likely,  because  that  Mr.  Pascoe 
was  in  Somerset  House.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  can  talk  quite  clearly,  and 
remembers  things!  Only  he  is  over  ninety." 

"  You  hadn't  seen  me  then  ? " 

"  Xo — or  I  could  have  told  him  what  you  were  like.  But  he 

said  he  thought  he  recollected  you.  He  called  you "  She  hung 

fire  for  a  moment.  "  He  called  you  the  boy." 

So  this  girl  was  the  grandniece  of  old  Mr.  Wardroper.  And 
it  was  then  and  there,  in  the  fog  in  Cranbourne  Street,  that  the 
memory  came  back  to  me,  in  a  flash,  of  how  Cooky  and  I  had 
once  walked  to  Parsons  Green  to  leave  a  letter  for  Mr.  Wardroper 
that  had  been  sent  to  The  Retreat.  I  found  I  remembered  very 
little  of  the  visit,  though  I  contrived  to  image  my  admission  at  the 
front  garden-gate,  and  fancied  that  the  housemaid  who  opened  it 
had  said  that  Mr.  Wardroper  could  not  see  any  one,  but  perhaps 
Mrs.  Harrison  could.  I  saw  now  that  she  must  have  said  Addison. 

We  stopped  a  couple  of  seconds  to  look  at  each  other  and  laugh. 
"  I  was  the  boy,"  said  I.  "  I  was  quite  a  youngster  the  last  time 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  467 

I  saw  him.  I  saw  your  mother  too.  I  came  about  a  letter  that 
had  been  opened  by  mistake.  That  was  your  mother,  I  suppose?  I 
think  the  old  gentleman  called  her  Zillah." 

"  That  was  my  mother's  name,"  This  was  spoken  in  a  minor 
key. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  ...  I  didn't  mean " 

"Oh,  how  could  you  know?     Besides,  why  should  7  mind?" 

"  If  I  had  known  I  should  have  asked  differently.  That  was 
all."  For  names  only  become  things  of  the  past  when  their  owners 
join  the  majority.  We  flagged  for  a  moment,  for  I  did  not  feel 
intimate  enough  for  sympathy  about  a  mother's  death.  I  thought 
I  should  do  best  to  leave  the  revival  of  the  conversation  to  the 
young  lady.  It  was  not  long  coming. 

"  Yes — my  mother  and  father  christened  me  Adah  with  an  H, 
after  Lamech's  other  wife.  You  remember  her  ? " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  We  were  talking  of  her  only  the  other  day." 
Which  was  true.  For  Bartholomew,  by  a  catechism  on  Gen.  I, 
had  entrapped  me  into  a  statement  that  Abel  killed  Cain,  and  I 
had  endeavoured  to  beguile  my  father  in  the  same  way.  He  had 
refused  to  be  taken  in,  saying  that  if  Cain  was  killed,  it  must  have 
been  by  Lamech.  Lamech  was  the  Second  Murderer  in  the  drama 
of  Creation. 

"  Just  as  if  you  met  her  in  Society,"  said  A.  Addison.  A  laugh 
at  this  was  interrupted  by  Leicester  Square,  or  by  the  intensifica- 
tion of  fog  which  denoted  it.  We  had  to  feel  our  way  across  two 
slow  processions  of  vehicles  through  pea-soup,  one  each  way. 

"  Never  mind!"  said  I,  and  added  groundlessly : — "It's  sure  to 
be  better  when  we've  passed  Piccadilly.  But — Lamech's  wife?" 
This  was  to  recover  a  lost  thread. 

"  Well — that's  why  I  was  called  Adah.  Because  mamma's  name 
was  Zillah.  It  wasn't  logical,  but  poor  Papa  was  not  a  logician 
whatever  he  was."  The  way  she  said  "  poor  papa "  puzzled  me. 
It  implied  allowance  made  for  something;  not  for  defective  intel- 
lect perhaps,  but  for  some  deficiency.  Her  words  left  an  image 
in  my  mind  of  a  man  who  was  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own,  as 
the  phrase  goes.  I  wanted  to  ask  more  about  him,  and  then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  did  not  know  if  he  was  alive  or  dead. 

I  could  not  light  on  any  better  way  of  asking  than : — "  Are  you 
an  orphan  \ "  It  seemed  less  rough  than : — "  Is  your  father 
dead?" 

Her  answer  took  me  aback.  "  I  don't  know.  I  can't  say."  Then 
she  seemed  to  think  a  minute,  before  adding : — "  Need  I  talk  at  all 
about  Papa  ? "  It  was  scarcely  a  question  asked  of  me ;  rather,  a 


468  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

passing  thought  that  had  found  her  speaking,  and  got  itself  ut- 
tered unawares. 

However,  I  replied  to  it: — "I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  want  to  be 
inquisitive.  Don't  tell  me  things !  "  I  spoke  in  the  compendious 
speech  I  should  have  used  to  Gracey,  and  she  seemed  quite  to 
understand  it.  For  she  answered,  "  Yes,  I  won't  then ; "  but 
presently  seemed  to  decide  that  she  had  been  too  abruptly  reticent, 
saying  in  a  subdued  sort  of  way : — "  I  have  not  seen  Papa  since 
I  was  quite  a  child." 

So,  there  was  some  mystery  about  her  father — some  curtain  I 
was  not  to  see  behind !  So  I  left  him  alone.  For  what  right  had 
I  even  to  feel  curiosity,  on  the  strength  of  an  acquaintance  not 
yet  three  hours  old?  Piccadilly  Circus  helped  the  dismissal  of 
the  subject,  for  there  we  lost  our  orientation  in  the  fog,  owing  to 
the  number  of  wrong  ways  open  to  us,  and  had  to  seek  help  from 
a  policeman.  When  asked,  "Which  is  Piccadilly?"  he  answered, 
"  That  was  Piccadilly,  over  that  way,  but  whether  it's  'oldin'  on  is 
more  than  I  can  say.  You  might  in-quire.  Only  foller  straight 
across — straight  as  you  can  go."  A  bus-conductor  at  the  corner 
replied  to  the  same  question,  "  'Ope  it  is !  Fares  won't  get  home 
if  it  isn't;"  and  walked  on  in  a  cloud  of  illuminated  steam  as  a 
horse-herald. 

"  You'll  see,"  said  my  companion,  "  we  shall  get  home  twice  as 
quick  by  walking."  And  even  as  she  spoke,  the  line  of  vehicles 
we  were  already  outstripping  became  a  stoppage,  and  one  knows 
what  that  word  meant  in  Piccadilly  in  the  early  '60s.  I  sup- 
pose that  stoppage  came  to  an  end  ultimately,  but  it  was  still  an 
undisguised  stoppage  when  we  arrived  at  Hyde  Park  Corner.  We 
left  it  submitting,  with  derision,  to  the  terms  of  its  existence, 
and  branched  off  through  Belgrave  Square.  I  can  recall  nothing 
after  this — except  of  course  the  two  great  main  facts,  the  girl  I 
was  walking  with  and  the  fog  I  was  walking  in — until  we  were 
nearing  The  Retreat,  when  the  fog  lightened  and  I  became  dimly 
aware  of  a  possible  embarrassment.  Suppose  I  were  to  meet  one 
or  more  members  of  my  family,  how  should  I  account  for  A.  Addi- 
son? 

Now  if  I  had  been  a  very  different  sort  of  young  man,  I  should 
never  have  asked  myself  this  question.  If  I  had  been  less  home- 
bred, more  at  ease  with  the  world  and  its  ways,  I  should  have  seen 
how  easy  it  would  be — unless  indeed  I  was  prepared  to  brazen  out 
A.  Addison — to  wish  her  good-bye  abruptly  with,  "  I  see  some  of 
my  people.  .  .  .  They'll  be  looking  for  me.  .  .  .  You'll  soon 
be  home  now,"  or  some  such  speech.  Then,  if  I  had  been  subtle 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  469 

and  deceptions  I  could  have  represented  her  as  a  wayfarer,  lost  in 
the  fog,  who  had  inquired  the  way  to  Putney,  and  would  get  there. 
There  were  many  excellent  openings  for  the  practice  of  duplicity, 
but  they  were  not  in  my  line.  I  was  not  a  duplex  young  man. 

If  I  had  been,  as  things  turned  out,  the  circumstances  might 
have  outclassed  me.  For  when  we  came  abreast  of  The  Retreat, 
my  companion  said,  as  I  expected  she  would,  that  here  we  were, 
and  now  I  mustn't  go  any  farther. 

I  said : — "  All  right !  I'll  only  go  a  few  inches  farther  and  then 
turn  back." 

She  said : — "  No,  indeed  you  won't,  Mr.  Pascoe.  I  won't  hear  of 
it.  You're  home  now.  Thank  you  so  very  much  for  protecting 
me  against  the  fog.  It's  lifting  now,  and  I  shall  be  all  right.  B«t 
I  should  still  be  in  that  omnibus  in  Piccadilly  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you.  I  should  have  been  frightened  into  it  oy  the  fog.  And  oh, 
the  stuffiness  and  the  choking !  So  now  good-bye,  please !  " 

She  was  so  positive  that  I  had  no  choice  but  to  obey.  But 
just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  taking  the  hand  she  held  out — not 
without  misgiving  that  I  ought  to  touch  it  very  formally,  on  so 
slight  an  acquaintance — I  saw  how  she  glanced  beyond  the  closed 
gate  of  The  Retreat,  and  I  suppose  showed  that  I  noticed  her 
doing  so.  For  she  said : — "  It  hasn't  changed  the  least." 

"  You  knew  it  quite  well,  of  course  ? " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  When  I  was  a  child,  every  Sunday.  But  I  have 
never  dared  to  go  in  and  look  at  it,  because  the  gate  is  always 
shut." 

"  Come  down  and  see  it  now."  Could  I  have  said  less  ?  We 
entered  and  the  gate  swung  to  behind  us. 

"  Do  the  giant  hemlocks  grow  as  they  used  to  in  the  Summer? " 
said  she.  "  They  used  to  get  to  such  a  size,  all  along  the  paddock." 

I  felt  that  the  place  really  belonged  to  her  and  hers,  and  that 
we  had  turned  both  out.  I  could  not  propose  reinstatement,  so 
I  vouched  for  the  hemlocks.  "  They'll  be  good  this  year,"  said  I. 
"  Because  they  were  bad  last.  They  take  it  turn  and  turn  about." 

"  Will  they  go  on  doing  so  for  ever  ?  I  am  such  a  bad  Botanist. 
I  never  know  these  things."  I  believe  I  pledged  myself  to  the  giant 

hemlocks,  in  aeterniun. 

/ 

Was  that  poor  stunted  remnant  of  their  ancient  glory  that  I 
saw  in  the  strangely  altered  home  I  still  could  recognize  as  The 
Retreat,  when  I  visited  it  for  the  last  time — was  it  the  last  of  its 
race? 

These  snatches  of  the  past — fragments  of  memories  of  forgotteu 


470  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

times  and  things — strengthen  from  their  mist  of  oblivion  for  a 
moment,  then  pass  away,  or  grow  dimmer  as  I  almost  cry  aloud 
to  them  to  stay  but  for  one  moment  more  that  I  may  link  them 
with  their  sequel.  Even  so  I  seemed  to  see  but  now  the  image  of 
A.  Addison,  standing  there  in  the  clearing  fog  gazing  at  the 
house-front  she  had  known  so  well,  and  almost  visibly  thinking 
how  she  might  ask  to  be  admitted  to  its  interior.  I  knew  that, 
but  a  sort  of  gaucherie  about  how  I  should  explain  her  stood  be- 
tween me  and  any  effort  I  might  else  have  made  to  pave  the  way 
to  the  request.  I  was  furtively  glad  she  would  never  make  it ;  glad 
of  my  own  confidence  in  her  reserve.  I  wonder  now  if,  supposing 
that  an  indifference  I  had  found  it  necessary  to  mention  to  my 
Self — an  indifference  to  that  oval  face  and  soft  thoughtful  eyes,  to 
that  stray  lock  of  rebellious  hair  now  safe  in  bondage,  to  those 
gloved  hands  I  knew  the  whiteness  of,  even  to  that  fur  tippet  that 
might  have  been  keeping  any  other  throat  warm — suppose  that  this 
transparent  effort  of  self-deception  had  been  genuine,  should  I  not 
perhaps  have  faced  the  music,  and  given  my  companion  the  in- 
dulgence I  knew  she  was  longing  to  petition  for?  Should  I  not 
have  given  Gracey  leave,  mentally,  to  chaff  me  to  her  heart's  con- 
tent, rather  than — suppose  we  say ! — disappoint  this  amiable  young 
person  I  had  been  good-natured  to?  I  hope  so. 

But  I  did  not,  for  reasons  best  known  to  my  Self;  and  the  last 
of  that  image  I  can  conjure  from  the  Past  has  a  wistful,  thwarted, 
slightly  disconcerted  look  as  it  holds  out  a  hand  I  am  intensely 
conscious  of,  to  say  good-bye.  What! — not  be  unconscious  of  a 
hand  one  takes!  How  conscious  is  one  of  nine-tenths  of  the 
hands  one  takes — those  of  visitors,  for  instance;  real  visitors,  who 
leave  cards  before  their  victims'  eyes? 

We  did  not  part  as  a  consequence  of  that  veiled  reciprocity 
about  the  crossing  of  our  threshold.  I  remember,  dimly,  making  a 
sort  of  incident  of  showing  the  young  lady  over  the  rest  of  the 
property;  and  she  assented  to  it  and  identified  things — asked  who 
our  neighbours  were  now,  and  so  on.  Then  she  fled,  saying  how 
late  she  would  be  at  home,  and  how  Grandpapa  would  think  she 
was  lost  in  the  fog. 

And  as  for  me,  I  still  suspected  nothing!  Even  though  I  found 
that  I  was,  on  the  whole,  not  best  pleased  that  the  young  woman 
should  have  shown  such  a  vital  attention  to  The  Eetreat,  on 
account  of  a  vested  interest  in  it  that  antedated  Me !  I  am  sure  I 
spelt  my  pronoun,  subconsciously,  with  a  capital  M  as  I  went 
upstairs  to  my  workroom. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  471 

There,  in  a  sense,  I  met  Nemesis.  Gracey,  attired  as  for  going 
out.  or  just  returned,  her  face  brimming  over  with  suppressed 
raillery,  coming  from  the  Studio.  And  I  immediately  was  aware 
that  she  had  been  looking  through  the  rift  in  the  baize  blind  at  me 
and  A.  Addison. 

"  Oh,  you  subtle,  secret  Jackey !  "  said  she.  "  Now  tell  me  who's 
the  Beauty!  I'm  dying  to  know."  But  she  kissed  me  to  show 
there  was  no  malice. 

I  affected  a  doubt  as  to  whom  she  meant,  but  made  a  very  poor 
show.  "  Stuff  and  nonsense,  Jackey !  "  said  she.  "  Don't  pretend ! 
Who  was  your  lovely  companion  ?  Outside  our  gate  just  now  ?  " 

'•  Who  ?  Her  ? "  said  I,  as  though  I  had  to  turn  over  in  my 
mind  a  number  of  lovely  companions  to  select  from.  "  She's  Miss 
What's-her-name.  She  cuts  blocks — you  know — Miss  What's-her 
name " 

"You  know,  and  I  don't!  No,  Jackey,  it's  no  use.  I'm  not 
going  to  guess,  and  you'll  have  to  tell." 

"  Very  well,  A.  Addison  then,  if  you  must  know !  She  lives  over 
at  Parsons  Green." 

"  And  you  were  coming  the  same  way.    7  see." 

"  Well — there  was  such  a  beastly  fog.  And  the  omnibuses  were 
crawling " 

"  Quite  right !  " 

"  And  she  was  going  to  walk  by  herself " 

"Precisely!" 

u  Because  her  friend  that  used  to  walk  home  with  her  is  going 
to  marry  Captain  O'Horrigan — or  Medlicott,  I  forget  which." 

"  Captain  Fiddlestick !  And  now  she's  gone  home  to  Parsons 
Green.  Why  didn't  you  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  with  her? " 

"  Well — you  see — she  said  the  fog  was  clearing,  so " 

u  So  there  was  no  more  pretext  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  say  it  that  way.  She  only  said  I  wasn't  to  come 
any  farther.  ...  I  say,  Gracey,  who  do  you  suppose  she  is? 
Really,  though ! " 

"  There — I  won't  chaff  him  any  more !  Who  is  she  ?  7  don't 
know."  So  I  then  told  her,  we  being  on  a  footing  of  reality,  of 
A.  Addison's  relationship  to  old  Mr.  Wardroper;  but  she  was  very 
little  impressed  by  this,  as  she  herself  had  never  seen  the  old 
gentleman.  She  was,  however,  very  much  amused  at  something 
that  hung  about  my  relations  with  this  new  young  lady  acquain- 
tance. What  she  saw  to  be  amused  at  was  more  than  I  could  tell, 
as  I  was  under  the  impression  that  I  had  successfully  concealed 
every  suspicion  of  sensibility;  although  I  was  beginning  to  admit 


472  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

that  a  little  might  be  found  in  some  back  cavern  of  my  heart 
if  very  careful  search  were  made  .for  it.  But  really  no  one — 
not  even  my  sister  Gracey — had  any  business  there  except  myself. 

I  was  to  feel  grateful  an  evening  later,  to  my  stepmother  for 
being  a  Woman  of  the  World.  This  sort  does  not  chaff  and  rally 
and  disconcert  young  men  who  are  or  have  been  grazed  by  some 
stray  arrow  of  Cupid.  Kather,  it  takes  for  granted,  that  a  man 
is  in  Love  until  the  contrary  is  proved;  and  it  is  much  too  well- 
bred  to  press  for  particulars.  This  indicates  the  attitude  I  ascribed 
to  Jemima  in  respect  of  the  information  she  received  from  Gracey 
about  any  affaire  de  coeur  of  mine.  And  I  knew  she  had  been 
informed  about  A.  Addison  as  soon  as  circumstances  permitted, 
one  of  the  circumstances  being  her  mood  of  resentment  at  the  visit 
of  Dr.  Scammony,  which  lasted  well  into  next  day.  Which  day 
being  the  day  of  my  more  matured  introduction  to  Miss  Addison, 
and  our  walk  home  together,  was  of  course  Saturday.  So  it  was  on 
the  Sunday  afternoon  following  that  Jemima  addressed  me,  speak- 
ing over  Gracey's  head  in  a  we-understand-one-another  way  that 
was  very  gratifying  to  me  in  view  of  its  visible  influence  on  a 
twinkle  of  anticipative  chaff  that  hovered  over  Gracey's  counte- 
nance. 

"  By-the-by,  that  Miss  Addison,  Jackey,"  said  she,  with  a  mo- 
mentary negligence  of  her  topic  to  secure  a  wristband. 

"  A.  Addison  ? "  said  I,  with  a  parade  of  indifference.  "  What 
about  A.  Addison?" 

The   wristband   did,   at  least   so  the  lady  decided,   now.     She 
returned  to  the  topic  which  she  had  left,  as  it  were,  waiting.    She 
became  luminous  and  business-like  about  it.     "  Are  you  sure  the 
name  is  Addison  ? "  said  she. 
•  "Absolutely  certain,"  said  I.     "Why?" 

"  Because  of  old  Mrs.  Illingsworth — something  she  told  me  about 
old  Mr.  Wtfrdroper's  grandniece  that  came  to  live  with  him."  This 
was  an  old  lady,  our  near  neighbour  at  The  Retreat,  with  whom 
a  visiting  connection  had  been  maintained  by  my  stepmother  and 
Gracey,  although  a  more  self-sustaining  communion  between  the 
two  families  had  died  a  natural  death  after  my  elder  sisters  mar- 
ried and  departed.  I  fancy  I  have  elsewhere  referred  to  the  fact 
that  there  were  two  young  Mr.  Illingsworths.  Concerning  whom 
tradition,  handed  on  by  some  one  who  slept  in  front  of  the  house, 
said  that  one  fine  morning  the  Milk,  in  commune  with  a  friend, 
had  been  heard  to  say : — "  There's  two  young  ladies  in  this  here 
house,  and  two  young  gentlemen  in  that,  and  what  more  do  yer 
want  ? "  To  which  the  friend,  an  older  person  and  more  dis- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  473 

creet,  had  replied : — "  You  'old  your  tongue,  my  man."  I  resusci- 
tate this  from  oblivion  to  give  stability  to  old  Mrs.  Illingsworth. 

"  Of  course,"  said  my  stepmother,  the  Woman  of  the  World, 
"  Mrs.  Illingsworth  came  here  a  very  short  time  after  Mr.  Ward- 
roper,  and  knew  all  about  what  was  going  on.  ...  Oh  dear,  yes ! 
— she  knew  Mrs.  Wardroper  intimately."  Then  she  went  on  as 
folk  do  who  turn  over  contemporary  History,  somewhat  as  they 
read  letters  aloud,  more  for  themselves  than  their  audience: — 
"  Only  I  can't  make  out  who  the  people  were.  I  am  sure  if  there 
had  been  an  Addison  in  Mecklenburg  Square,  your  father  would 
have  known.  .  .  .  Yes — thank  you ! — the  little  screen,  please." 
For  I,  perceiving  that  her  fingers  were  extended  to  shade  her  face 
from  the  fire,  was  offering  the  big  screen. 

"  But  what  had  Mrs.  Illingsworth  to  say  about  it  ? "  Gracey  and 
I  asked  conjointly. 

"  Well — of  course  it  must  have  been  another  grandniece,  not 
this  Mrs.  Addison.  .  .  .  Oh — what  did  she  say?  Why — his 
grandniece  was  married  to  a  barrister,  who  lived  in  Mecklenburg 
Square,  and  did  something  disgraceful.  Only  the  name  was  dis- 
tinctly not  Addison." 

"Now  remember,  Jackey!"  said  Gracey,  holding  up  a  warning 
finger  to  me,  "  you  mustn't  say  a  word  about  barristers  or 
Mecklenburg  Square  to  your  A.  Addison.  Recollect !  " 

"  Come,  I  say,  G. !  "  said  I.    "  I'm  not  altogether  an  idiot." 

"Then,  don't!" 

My  stepmother  substituted  a  less  truculent  version  of  the  same 
advice,  which  recognized  my  non-idiocy.  "  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  to  say  nothing  to  the  girl,"  said  she,  moderately. 

I  did  not  condescend  to  give  a  new  guarantee  of  my  own  dis- 
cretion. I  perceived  the  desirability  of  prudence,  with  nods,  but 
briefly  asked  if  Mrs.  Illingsworth  had  furnished  no  other  par- 
ticulars. 

Mrs.  Illingsworth — said  Jemima — had  been  very  reticent  about 
the  accusation  brought  against  the  father.  She  had- only  said  it 
was  something  very  disgraceful.  I  was  so  minded  to  think  that 
it  was  intrinsically  impossible  that  the  father  of  two  such  hands, 
such  a  stray  lock  of  warm  brown  hair,  such  lips  with  such  a  smile, 
and  such  a  gravity,  such  eyes,  such  teeth,  such  a  total! — could 
be  guilty  of  anything  actually  disgraceful,  that  I  dismissed  this 
barrister  in  Mecklenburg  Square  as  quite  untenable.  All  the 
same,  I  could  not  but  recall  uneasily  that  equivocal  way  in  which 
A.  Addison  herself  had  spoken  of  h^r  father. 

Then  I  remembered  that  when  we  first  came  to  The  Retreat, 


474  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

a  relative  or  connection  of  old  Wardroper  had  interviewed  my 
father  about  the  lease,  and  had  spoken  of  his  sister-in-law,  a  widow 
named  Addison,  whose  husband  he  had  never  seen.  But  the  entry 
of  this  in  my  book  of  memory  was  so  ill-written  that  I  went  to  my 
father  to  help  me  to  decipher  it.  I  was  quite  satisfied  with  my  first 
interpretation,  but  later  rejected  it  in  favour  of  the  idea  that  I 
must  have  recollected  the  name  as  Addison,  because  of  the  recent 
appearance  of  that  name  on  the  tapis. 

My  father's  memory  was  very  hazy  about  it.  "  Are  you  sure  the 
name  wasn't  Ridge?"  said  he.  But  he  recanted  Ridge  before  I 
had  time  to  reject  it.  "Oh  no,  I  remember!  Ridge  was  the  old 
chap's  son-in-law  who  brought  me  the  lease.  .  .  .  No — I  couldn't 
say.  Perhaps  it  was  Addison." 

I  don't  think  that  this  was  any  sign  of  incipient  mental  decay 
in  my  father.  Forgetfulness  of  a  name  mentioned  in  an  interview 
seven  years  ago ! — what  does  it  amount  to  when  all  is  said  ? 

Besides,  he  remembered  plainly  enough  some  things  I  had  for- 
gotten, but  knew  at  the  time.  "  Ridge  was  a  very  close-shaven 
customer  with  a  shiny  hat,"  said  he.  "  Did  he  tell  me  he  and 
his  wife's  family  were  at  daggers  drawn?  .  .  .  Well — perhaps 
not  exactly  that,  but  something  like  it." 

"  Perhaps  he  said  so  when  I  wasn't  there,"  said  I,  qualifying  a 
look  of  incredulity. 

"Maybe!"  said  my  father,  and  smoked  placidly  for  awhile. 
Then  he  gave  me  the  benefit  of  his  reflections.  "  I  think  I've  got 
it.  Mr.  Moberly  Ridge.  Mr.  Moberly  Ridge  said  his  sister-in-law 
and  her  deceased  husband — before  his  decease  of  course — had  lived 
opposite  to  us,  in  our  Square.  All  I  can  remember  about  her 
name  is  that  no  one  I  ever  heard  of  in  the  Square  was  called  by  it." 

"  I  recollect.  And  The  Man  had  never  heard  of  any  such  a 
name."  I  could  recall,  and  did,  as  I  saw  it  amused  my  father, 
how  Mr.  Freeman  had  thought  it  necessary  to  reinforce  his  testi- 
mony as  to  the  absence  of  Addison  from  the  records  of  the  Square, 
by  a  groundless  incredulity  of  the  existence  of  any  such  a  name, 
as  an  English  patronymic.  If  we  had  said  Handerson,  or  Ander- 
son, he  might  have  been  able  to  meet  us  halfway.  But  when  it 
come  to  Addison,  he  could  only  ask  what  you  was  a-going  to  say 
next.  This  he  did  not  justify  by  any  production  of  a  resident 
Anderson,  now  or  at  any  time.  His  remarks  turned  entirely  on  the 
a  priori  recommendations  of  a  name. 

"  I  should  have  so  much  liked,"  said  my  father,  "  to  be  Mr. 
Freeman  for  five  minutes,  to  see  what  it  felt  like.  I  suppose, 
however,  if  one  had  the  chance  of  being  somebody  ejse,  it  would 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  475 

be  wiser  to  jump  at  the  opportunity  to  be  some  one  with  a  larger 
horizon — Shakespeare  or  Beethoven  or  the  Editor  of  the  Times." 
We  then  endeavoured  to  recall  names,  plausible  or  otherwise,  of 
dwellers  in  the  Square  in  our  time,  but  could  not  find  an  Addison. 
I  would  not  have  believed  that  so  large  a  number  of  names  totally 
unlike  it  existed.  "  Probably,"  said  he,  "  old  Wardroper  had  got 
mixed  up  about  the  name  of  the  Square.  However,  ask  your 
friend  Miss  Addison  pointblank?  next  time  you  see  her.  That's 
what  I  should  do  if  I  were  you,  Jackey."  And  then  we  talked  of 
something  else. 

Generally  speaking,  I  used  to  follow  my  father's  advice.  This 
time  I  found  myself,  on  reflection,  disposed  towards  my  step- 
mother's and  Gracey's  view  that  I  should  do  well  to  hold  my 
tongue  about  this  mysterious  vanished  parent;  possibly  a  criminal, 
either  in  durance  or  evading  the  law.  "  Something  very  disgrace- 
ful," had  such  an  unsavoury  sound  about  it. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

"  'OLD  on's  the  motter,"  said  'Opkins  one  early  Spring  day 
shortly  after  this.  "  Nothin'  like  it,  nowadays !  " 

"  I  don't  see "  said  a  dreary  student,  and  stopped.  A  profli- 
gate student  near  at  hand,  one  who  respected  nothing  in  Creation, 
masculine,  feminine,  or  neuter,  said  promptly : — "  G'yup,  Pepper- 
mint; what  don't  you  see?  Get  it  sput  out,  and  ha'  done  with  it !  " 

Whereupon  the  dreary  student  said  again,  "  I  don't  see "  and 

stopped  again,  as  before.  His  intonation  of  his  last  two  vowels 
produced  a  well-executed  echo  from  the  mocker,  and  an  apprecia- 
tive laugh  from  his  admirers. 

"  Will  you  be  silent,  me  boy,  and  let  us  hear  Mr.  Pethersole  ? " 
The  student  who  said  this  spoke  with  an  indication  of  reverence  for 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Pethersole,  miscalled  Peppermint,  in  which 
there  was  a  trace  of  ridicule. 

The  profligate  student,  in  compliment  to  the  speaker,  assumed 
an  exaggerated  Irish  accent.  "  Will  I  howld  me  tongue  thin,  to 
oblige  the  O'Flanigin  ? "  Sure  and  I  will,  be  Jasus.  Arrah  thin, 
Pippermint  darlin',  spake  away  and  lit  the  jontlemen  hear  your 
melothious  accints."  And  so  forth,  until  invited  by  a  collective 
appeal  to  shut  up. 

The  dreary  student  then,  having  the  rostrum  to  himself,  went  on 
where  he  had  left  off,  drearily  :-*-"  I  don't  see  how  you  do  without 
Genius." 

"  Ah  now !  "  said  Mr.  O'Flanagan.  l<  Give  your  attention  to 
Misther  Pithersole,  Hopkins.  The  wurruds  of  wisdom!  How 
will  ye  do  without  Janius?" 

"  Poor  beggar ! — he's  got  to,"  said  the  mocker,  whose  name  was 
Nixon.  "Never  mind,  'Opkins  my  boy!  Cheer  up,  'Opkins!  All 
in  the  same  boat  at  this  Academy,  'Opkins !  "  He  dropped  his  con- 
solatory tone  for  a  merely  business  one.  "  Anybody  here  a  Genius? 
Let  him  speak  now  or  be  for  ever  silent.  Don't  all  speak  at  once." 
But  every  one  kept  his  conviction,  if  he  had  one,  to  himself. 

If  this  were  a  book,  I  should  have  to  explain  that  the  profligate 
student's  licence  of  speech  was  safely  practised  by  him  owing  to 
a  physical  deformity.  It  was  a  universally  conceded  privilege. 

476 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  477 

'Opkins  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  justify  his  position. 
"  Genius,"  he  said,  "  is  a  gift,  bestowed  by  Providence." 

"  On  me,"  said  that  diable  loiteux,  Nixon.  "  What  will  yon 
stand?"  This  was  an  interruption  without  warrant  from  its  own 
subject-matter. 

'Opkins  ignored  it  with  dignity,  and  continued: — ".  .  .  in 
fulfilment  of  Destiny,  on  worthy  recipients  'avin'  the  correct  quali- 
fications. Persons  endooed  with  Genius  are  rarer  avisses  not 
frequently  come  across.  'Umbler  capacities  have  to  make  good  by 
perseverin',  which  goes  a  long  way.  So  I  say — 'Old  on's  the  word." 

I  happen  to  remember  this  scrap  of  conversation  on  the  occasion 
of  a  sporadic  appearance  of  mine  at  the  R.  A.  The  remark  of 
'Opkins  that  it  opened  with  was  made  in  response  to  a  felicitation 
of 'mine  on  his  steadfastness  and  persistency.  He  was  not  able 
to  compliment  me  in  return,  for  I  must  have  seemed  a  flaneur 
without  a  purpose,  coming  in  as  I  did  just  as  the  model  was  going 
to  abdicate — to  come  down  off  of  the  throne  was  her  own  exact 
expression.  'Opkins  was  kind  enough  to  suggest  that  perhaps  I 
ought  to  be  described — though  not  as  a  rara  avis  or  person  endowed 
with  Genius — as  an  instance  of  exceptional  aptitood  in  a  particklar 
line,  and  indeed  of  no  mean  merit.  He  himself  posed  as  of  a 
humbler  capacity,  but  with  a  nobler  aim. 

I  think  my  conscience  found  a  palliative  for  its  uneasiness  over 
a  factitious  necessity  for  a  visit  to  Ivnotter's  wood  cutting  atelier, 
in  this  looking  in  at  the  Academy  to  bring  away  marine  stores  that 
had  no  place  among  my  present  working  tools.  By  an  odd  coinci- 
dence I  was  getting  a  wood-block  finished  at  the  end  of  the  next 
week,  which  called  imperiously  for  a  personal  interview  with  the 
cutter.  For  the  making  of  this  programme  plausible,  I  kept  the 
eyes  of  my  soul  open  to  the  fact  that  the  cutter  need  not  of 
necessity  be  A.  Addison.  If  it  should  happen  to  be  that  young 
person,  well  and  good!  It  was  no  fault  of  mine.  But  I  was  not 
going  to  admit  the  truth — that  I  was  going  to  Long  Acre  with  a 
subcutaneous  purpose,  concealing  a  possibility  of  a  walk  home  with 
a  particular  pair  of  hands ;  and  that  my  seizing  the  opportunity  for 
a  flying  visit  to  the  Academy  had  as  little  to  do  with  the  matter 
as  had  indeed  the  wood-block  itself. 

Nevertheless  I  had  the  effrontery  to  utilize  the  Academy  in  con- 
versation -with  Gracey;  who,  I  felt,  had  her  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Which  are  you  going  to  first  ?  That's  the  point,"  said  she. 
"  Is  it  to  be  the  Academy,  or  is  it  to  be  A.  Addison  ? " 

"  Just  whichever  is  most  convenient,"  said  I,  evasively.  *'  I 
hadn't  thought."  This  last  was  not  evasion — it  was  mendacity. 


478  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

Gracey  recognized  it  as  such.  "  Oh,  you  story ! "  said  she,  can- 
didly. "  As  if  you  could  leave  A.  Addison  walking  up  and  down  in 
Trafalgar  Square  while  you  went  in  for  old  brushes,  which  you 
don't  want  and  never  use." 

"  Miss  Addison  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter," 
said  I,  freezingly.  "  She  may  be  there,  or  she  may  not." 

"  We  wash  our  hands  of  Miss  Addison,"  said  Gracey,  her  eyes 
twinkling  aggressively.  "  I  see.  And  she  may  be  there  or  she 
may  not!  Precisely.  But,  Jackey  dear " 

"But— cut  along!" 

"  If  by  any  improbable  chance  Miss  Addison  should  be  there,  and 
the  consequences  were " 

"  I  hate  that  idiotic  game." 

"  I  don't  .  .  .  and  the  consequences  were  that  you  walked 
all  the  way  home  in  Miss  Addison's  pocket,  like  last  Saturday " 

"  What  bosh !  " 

"  Very  well — bosh  then !  Just  as  you  like.  Only  if  it  happens 
— bosh  or  no  bosh! — do  bring  the  poor  girl  in  and  show  her  the 
garden.  I  tell  you  I  saw  her  longing  to  come  in,  through  the 
window-curtain.  Now  don't  be  a  goose,  but  do  as  I  tell  you." 

My  present  favourite  psychometry  is  that  we  have  not  only 
a  subconscious  self,  but  several  subconscious  selves — any  number! 
— and  that  one  or  two  of  mine  laid  their  heads  together  and 
decided  to  follow  Gracey's  behest.  Three  or  four  noisier  ones, 
however,  insisted  on  my  believing  that  my  instructions  would  be 
given  to  some  one  else  than  A.  Addison,  and  that  my  sole  com- 
munications with  that  young  lady  would  be  limited  to  wishing  her 
good-morning.  A  good  large  group  expressed  their  repugnance 
to  this  possibility,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  one  in  a  corner — a  poor 
Lalf-hearted  self — did  not  try  to  remind  me  of  that  waning  Adeline 
of  two  years  since.  Anyhow,  my  subconscious  selves  were  very 
active  all  through  my  journey  to  town  that  morning,  and  only  sub- 
sided when  I  reached  the  Academy,  where  of  course  I  went  first. 
Then  it  was  that  some  remarks  upon  my  intermittent  character  led 
to  the  conversation  on  Perseverance  and  Genius  which  I  have  just 
recorded. 

The  small  parcel  of  unnecessaries  I  brought  away  with  me  helped 
to  keep  my  subconscious  selves  in  abeyance  for  the  rest  of  my 
journey  to  Knotter's.  Arrived  there  I  was  disgusted  to  hear  that, 
as  a  compliment  to  me,  the  last  block  I  had  left  the  week  before 
had  been  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  Miss  Procter's  department — 
•which  was  of  an  educational  nature,  although  her  pupils  turned 
cut  some  very  fair  work — and  taken  over  by  Mr.  Shrapnell  ^lim- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

self.  I  longed  to  assassinate  Mr.  Shrapnell,  and  was  obliged  to  ex- 
press myself  flattered  and  delighted.  The  thought  also  oppressed 
me  that  this  great  man  would  cut  my  block  secundum  artem;  and 
would  refine  my  drawing,  and  even — to  borrow  an  expression  used 
by  'Opkins  in  our  chalk-drawing  days  at  Slocum's — "  'atch  up 
shadderin',"  a  thing  I  particularly  wished  to  avoid. 

However,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  affect  rapture  at  my 
good  fortune,  and  I  hope  Mr.  Shrapnell  himself  was  taken 
in. 

I  felt  horribly  non-suited  as  I  walked  out  into  Long  Acre  with- 
out having  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  A.  Addison.  I  concentrated  all 
my  faculties  on  pretending  I  didn't  care,  and  perhaps  forgot  that 
Long  Acre  did  not  care  whether  I  cared  or  not.  I  doubt  whether 
any  man-in-the  street  whom  I  passed  noticed  the  whirlwind  of 
indifference  which  I  was  putting  into  practice. 

The  question  I  now  had  to  consider  was  how  to  repass  the  en- 
trance to  Knotter's  unintentionally  just  at  the  moment  at  which 
Miss  Addison  had  started  for  home  last  Saturday.  Simply  to  go 
for  a  walk  and  return  in  half-an-hour  would  lay  me  open  to  con- 
viction in  the  Court  of  my  own  conscience.  That  would  never  do. 

A  lucky  thought!  There  was  my  Artist  Colourman,  close  at 
hand.  Not  only  could  I  spend  any  length  of  time  I  chose  in  select- 
ing a  purchase,  but  I  could  fill  out  a  cool  ten  minutes  in  deciding- 
what  it  was  to  be.  For  I  was  quite  xinconscious  of  being  in  want 
of  anything.  The  fact  is,  that  the  designer  in  black  and  white 
wants  but  little  here  below,  and  cannot  make  his  bill  for  materials 
otherwise  than  short.  Wood-blocks  were  my  piece  de  resistance 
in  those  days,  as  I  drew  direct  on  them  with  Indian  Ink;  but  a 
wood-block  is  always  perfect,  and  the  most  fastidious  could  not 
spin  out  the  choice  of  a  wood-block,  even  if  blocks  of  every  propor- 
tion known  to  Geometry  were  habitually  stocked.  They  are,  how- 
ever, always  bespoke,  like  boots.  It  takes  such  a  short  time  to 
order  anything  of  two  dimensions  only.  Wood-blocks  would  not  do. 

How  about  a  sketching-block,  with  some  unnegotiable  peculiar- 
ity? An  Indian  Ink  bottle  incorporated  in  its  structure  in  some 
subtle  way,  and  incapable  of  departing  from  the  perpendicular! 
Some  one  of  my  many  subconsciousnesses  vouched  for  having  seen 
such  a  one  advertised.  How  fortunate  that  it  should  cross  my 
mind,  just  as  I  got  to  the  shop!  I  elected  to  be  in  serious  want 
of  it. 

I  walked  some  distance  down  the  shop — shops  have  no  end,  one 
knows! — and  came  to  an  anchor  with  my  back  to  the  entrance,  so 
that  I  saw  no  incomer.  I  inquired  for  this  peculiar  sketching-block, 


480  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  to  my  surprise  was  told  that  no  doubt  it  was  the  Non-absorb- 
ent Trapezodium  I  meant.  One  was  produced — but  mine  was 
evidently  some  other  Trapezodium,  not  the  Non-absorbent  variety. 
I  then  inspected  more  examples  of  facilities  for  making  Sketches 
from  Nature  than  the  number  of  Sketches  -from  Nature  that  I 
had  seen,  worth  looking  at,  appeared  to  justify.  I  carefully  de- 
scribed the  contrivance  I  had  in  view,  and  my  friend  across  the 
counter  promised  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  it  for  me.  I  doubt  its 
ever  having  come  into  the  market.  According  to  my  recollection 
it  would  have  been  possible  only  to  some  adaptation  of  the  gyro- 
scope, which  is  said  always  to  keep  a  ship's  head  right,  be  the 
steersman  never  so  drunk. 

I  was  inspecting,  I  think,  a  recent  patent  which  enabled  the 
artist  to  cook  a  light  luncheon  without  suspending  work,  when  a 
girl's  voice,  behind  me,  asked  if  that  was  not  Mr.  Pascoe.  I 
claimed  his  identity  with  unparalleled  alacrity. 

"  I  saw  your  back  and  thought  it  must  be  you,"  said  A.  Addison. 
"I  thought  you  would  like  to  hear.  So  I  came  to  tell  you  Mr. 
Shrapnell  himself  fell  in  love  with  your  block.  And  he's  taken  it 
away  to  cut  himself.  There!" 

"  Oh — well ! — I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  very  much  honoured  and 
so  forth.  But  I  would  sooner  you  should  have  cut  it." 

"  Oh !  But  why  ? "  A  sudden  grave  perplexity  unsettled  her 
safe  expression  of  geniality  towards  an  unconsolidated  acquain- 
tance, almost  a  stranger.  This  was  such  an  unprovoked  expres- 
sion of  faith  on  my  part.  "  But  of  course  you're  very  kind  to  say 
so." 

Young  gentlemen  cannot  be  too  cautious  about  the  emphasis 
they  lay  on  the  pronoun  "you,"  when  addressing  recent  young 
lady  acquaintances.  Of  course,  when  it's  Opera,  you  may  do  it  in 
your  very  first  bar.  But  then,  in  that  case  you  will  be  pressing 
the  lady's  hand  to  your  bosom  before  the  duetto  part  comes.  It 
was  quite  different  that  day  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  Long  Acre 
colour-shop.  I  felt  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  the  lay-figure—carefully  shrouded,  all  but  her  expressive 
face,  in  green  glazed  calico — had  not  detected  it.  But  it  was  im- 
possible to  explain  that  nothing  personal  had  entered  into  my 
speech.  I  never  was  a  dab  at  excuse-mongering,  and  my  attempt 
at  one  this  time  was  lame.  "  I — I — suppose  I  should  have  said 
'your  department.'  In  order  to  keep  one  style  all  through,  you 

know!  But,  however !  "  This  was  dismissal  of  the  grievance, 

and  acceptance  of  the  decisions  of  Destiny. 

A,   Addison   immediately   made   the   most  of   my   explanation. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  481 

"  Oh,  I  see ! — you're  quite  right.  The  styles  oughtn't  to  clash,  and 
I  hope  they  won't." 

I  wanted  to  soften  this  Spartan  definition  of  the  position.  But 
it  was  quite  impossible  to  weave  in  a  thread  of  preference  for  the 
young  lady's  own  work,  because  I  had  seen  so  little  of  it  that  a 
bias  towards  it  could  not  seem  impersonal.  So  I  stuttered  and 
lost  myself,  and  I  am  certain  that  lay-figures  set  me  down  as  a 
weak  young  man. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Pascoe!  I  must  run,  or  I  shan't  catch' 
my  omnibus."  This  was  how  A.  Addison  cut  short  a  conversa- 
tion which  had  very  little  to  say  for  itself,  and  was  halfway  up 
the  long  shop  before  Despair  and  Resolution  had  settled  between 
them  what  was  to  be  done. 

Resolution  had  the  best  of  it,  and  was  rewarded  by  help  from 
an  unexpected  ally.  So  obviously  was  my  start  from  the  back- 
shop  a  pursuit  of  the  young  lady,  that  a  solemn  shopman  in  charge 
of  the  more  exoteric  counter  discerned  in  me  a  family  friend  of 
hers,  to  whom  a  mission  of  delicacy  might  be  safely  entrusted.  tl  I 
think,"  said  he,  pointing  to  an  entity  on  the  counter,  but  ignoring 
its  nature,  "  the  lady  is  leaving  something  behind.  Perhaps  you." 
He  seemed  content  to  stop  here,  and  I  was  content  to  accept  his 
punctuation.  I  caught  up  a  palpable  button-hook — with  nothing 
about  it  that  wanted  a  veil  drawn  over  it — and  pursued  its  owner 
down  Long  Acre. 

I  seem  to  have  to  throw  Memory  back — so  vividly  does  this  inci- 
dent of  fifty  years  ago  come  to  me  now — to  summon  from  the 
past  my  last  slow  progress  down  that  street,  some  two  years  since 
at  most.  But  it  comes,  and  I  am  again  an  old  man  young  enough 
for  his  heart  to  break  a  little  still  at  the  past  that  comes  back  to 
him  then — the  past  of  his  early  manhood,  when  all  the  fulness  of 
his  life  was  still  to  come.  Some  passerby  may  have  wondered  then 
why  tears  were  running  down  a  chance  old  face.  I  wonder  too  a 
little  now — what  does  it  all  matter?  What  did  it  matter  then? 
Just  one  life,  and  one  past,  among  millions.  And  so  soon  one 
utter  blank,  among  billions;  one  oblivion,  lost  in  a  boundless 
void. 

And  yet  how  strange  is  the  thread  of  memory  that  brings  back 
the  self-same  recollection  that  came  back  to  me  then  of  that 
button-hook,  and  made  my  heart  ache  with  a  pain  I  shall  never 
feel  again.  For  I  am  daily  nearer  to  the  end,  and  each  day  am 
readier  to  praise  any  Creator  that  can  be  authenticated,  for  his 
creation  of  Nothingness  and  Peace. 


482  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  caught  A.  Addison  just  opposite  a  coachmaker's,  with  a 
magnate  choosing  a  barouche  for  his  wife  visible  through  the 
plate-glass  window.  My  recollection  is  of  embossed  letters  claim- 
ing that  the  coachmaker  was  Coachmaker  to  Her  Majesty.  But 
I  find  I  cannot  recall  any  instance  of  one  who  was  not.  Perhaps 
it  is  only  my  failing  memory. 

"  It  must  be  mine.  It  looks  very  like  it,"  said  the  young  lady, 
"when  taxed  with  the  button-hook.  "  Stop  one  moment,  and  let  me 
see  if  mine  isn't  here."  She  referred  to  the  interior  of  a  little 
wallet  or  reticule,  while  both  of  us  accepted  apparently  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  scheme  of  Society,  in  which  button-hooks  were  frequently 
met  with,  shed  sporadically  by  careless  units,  as  legs  by  grass- 
hoppers or  locusts.  "Why — of  course  it's  mine!  "  said  she  with  a 
delightful  laugh,  after  examination.  "  How  could  it  be  anybody 
else's?" 

That  laugh  of  hers  intoxicated  my  heart;  and  Resolution,  who 
had  shown  signs  of  wavering,  reasserted  herself.  "  I  was  coming 

after  you  to  tell  you  ...  to  say "  I  began,  and  then  felt  it 

easier  to  transpose  my  key,  "  The  chap  in  the  shop  gave  me  that. 
He  saw  I  was  coming  to  catch  you  up." 

"  It  must  have  tumbled  out  of  my  bag,"  she  said.  "  But  what 
were  you  going  to  say  ?  Tell  me." 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  my  sister  saw  us  outside  th»  gate  the 
other  day.  She  said  she  was  sure  you  would  have  liked  to  see 
inside  the  house,  and  the  garden — and  why  didn't  I  bring  you  in  ?  " 

"  Oh — your  sister!  "  She  glanced  at  me  with  a  doubtful  gravity, 
as  though  some  new  light  had  broken.  "  Should  we  find  your 
sister  on  the  way  back,  now  ? " 

"  Well — we  migli  t."  I  really  thought  probably  not,  but  the 
context  of  circumstances  pointed  to  what  I  wanted,  videlicet  more 
A.  Addison,  somehow;  and  I  did  not  feel  tied  to  the  apron  strings 
of  Veracity.  After  all,  if  Gracey  was  out,  it  would  not  matter. 

We  walked  on;  with  the  question,  I  should  say,  unsettled  by 
tacit  consent.  Presently  my  companion,  with  an  odd  gravity  that 
had  got  possession  of  her,  said  abruptly : — "  It  would  not  take  so 
long,  just  to  see  round  the  garden?" 

I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  compared  it  with  St.  Martin's  Clock, 
just  visible.  "  Half -past  twelve,"  I  said.  "  One  has  to  consider 
lunch.  That's  what  you  were  thinking  of,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  mine!  "  said  she.    "  I  was  thinking  of  yours." 

"  We  are  always  late  on  Saturday,"  said  I.  Then  a  reckless 
inspiration  seized  me.  Would  a  hansom  be  absolutely  out  of  the 
question  ? 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  483 

To  my  surprise  and  satisfaction  the  answer  to  this  was : — "  If 
you'll  let  me  pay  my  half."  But  I  could  not  fathom  the  speaker's 
manner.  It  was  not  exactly  colder  than  on  the  previous  Saturday; 
perhaps  '*  more  cautious  "  would  be  nearer  the  mark.  I  see  now 
that  there  had  been  no  time  to  consider  a  demeanour  when  we  had 
that  first  interview. 

It  told,  in  the  cab.  I  suppose  there  is  no  truer  test  of  frank 
unconsciousness  towards  a  personality  than  the  exact  place  one 
occupies  beside  it  in  a  hansom.  It  is  impossible  to  bisect  your  own 
half  of  the  seat  impartially. if  you  love  or  hate  that  personality. 
And  any  little  rule  of  demeanour  that  one  has  to  enter  on  life's 
programme  has  its  effect,  pro  rata.  A.  Addison  flinched  towards 
her  side  of  the  cab,  past  all  shadow  of  doubt.  But  she  wasn't  rude 
to  me;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  perfectly  cordial.  Something  con- 
vinced me,  for  all  that,  that  had  a  cab  Keen  practicable  on  the 
previous  Saturday,  there  would  have  been  no  South  Pole  magnet- 
ism in  either  fare. 

We  conversed — oh  dear,  yes ! — all  the  way  to  Chelsea  Vestry 
Hall.  That  is  what  it  was,  in  those  days,  when  Borough  Councils 
were  undreamed  of.  I  remember  what  follows  of  the  conversation. 

"  Your  sister  won't  thank  me  for  rushing  in  in  this  way,  just 
before  lunch." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well — it  stands  to  reason.     She's  human,  I  suppose?" 

"J  should  say  so.  But  do  inhuman  persons  thank  people  for 
rushing  in  ? " 

"  Just  before  lunch  ?  I  should  say  they  might.  Only  I  shouldn't 
call  them  inhuman.  I  should  say  angelic.  Because  there  are 
limits." 

"What  to?" 

"  Visitors." 

I  thought  of  saying  it  depended  on  who  they  were.  I  decided 
that  it  would  not  be  impersonal  enough — in  a  hansom  cab.  I 
doubt  if  the  driver's  experience  would  have  ascribed  my  standard 
of  delicacy  to  fares  as  a  rule.  I  did  say : — "  I'm  sure  Gracey  will 
be  awfully  glad  to  see  you."  I  made  it  "  awfully."  as  I  felt  "  very  " 
would  not  carry  conviction.  Then  I  smothered  possible  analysis 
of  my  grounds  for  certainty  by  a  practical  tone.  "  She  may  not 
be  back.  She'll  be  sorry  to  miss  you."  Impersonal  enough  for 
any  cab,  that! — even  for  a  four-wheeler. 

"I  shall  be  sorry  to  miss  her.  Vert/  sorry!"  I  was  glad  Miss 
Addison  should  be  so  very  sorry  to  miss  my  sister,  but  with  just 
a  leaven  of  misgiving  about  the  reason  why.  There  was  the 


484  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

flavour  of  an  enigma  in  her  tone  of  voice — slight,  but  perceptible. 
She  looked  grave  too,  as  one  who  considers  outcomes. 

"  My  stepmother  will  be  there  perhaps — Mrs.  Pascoe." 

"  Oh,  indeed !     Yes,  of  course !  " 

"  She's  quite  a  nice  person,  you  know." 

"  Oh  ye-es ! — handsome,  isn't  she  ?  "  This  was  evidently  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something,  to  avoid  saying  nothing.  At  least 
that  was  what  I  took  it  to  be,  at  the  moment. 

"  I  suppose  she  is,  but  I  don't  know.  I'm  so  used  to  her.  You 
see,  she's  been  on  since  I  was  a  child." 

"On?" 

"Well — yes — on!  I  mean — going.  She  was  the  girls' governess, 
and  my  father  thought  it  would  do  if  he  married  her.  So  she's 
Mrs.  Pascoe." 

"But  she's  nice?— you  like  her?" 

"  She's  not  like  one's  idea  of  a  stepmother,  if  that's  what  you 
mean." 

A.  Addison  considered  the  point,  gravely.  "  I  suppose  perhaps 
I  did  mean  something  of  that  sort,"  said  she.  "-"One  has  an  idea 
of  stepmothers.  But  what  I  mean  is — is  she  the  sort  of  person  to 
be  afraid  of?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no !    Jemima — certainly  not !  " 

"What's  that  you  call  her — Jemima?" 

"A  sort  of  nickname.     Not  to  her  face,  you  know!" 

"  But  it's  a  name  one  always  .  .  .  always  laughs  about.  Only 
I  can't  think  why.  What  made  you  call  her  it?" 

"  Well — you  see — her  name  was  Evans,  before  she  married  my 
father.  Now  she's  Mrs.  Pascoe.  The  name  Jemima  had  caught 
on,  and  it  stuck." 

"But  why  Jemima?" 

"Because  her  name  was  Evans,  don't  you  understand?" 

"I  certainly  don't.  Job's  other  name  wasn't  Evans,  was  it?" 
Her  puzzled  face  arrested  my  absurd  assumption  that  the  two 
names  would  seem  to  her  to  belong  to  one  another,  as  they  did  to 
me.  Then  I  found  I  was  by  no  means  sure  why  they  did  so,  and 
had  to  go  back  to  find  out. 

"  Let  me  see!  "  said  I,  gradually  recalling.  "  When  did  Jemima 
come  in?  ...  Oh,  I  remember — I've  got  it!  It  was  in. 
Sketches  by  Boz — Miss  Jemima  Ivins  and  Miss  Jemima  Ivinses 
friend's  young  man.  Fancy  my  having  forgotten  that!" 

"  That  was  quite  natural.  One  does  forget  how  things  began. 
But  about  this  lady — your  stepmother.  Is  she  not  thought  very 
handsome? " 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  485 

"I  don't  know.  She  may  be.  Only  who  told  you?  I  mean 
where  did  you  hear  it  \ " 

The  answer  followed  reminiscence.  "  I  think  it  was  an  old  lady 
named  .  .  .  Malkinshaw,  I  think." 

"Walkinshaw?" 

"  Yes — Walkinshaw.  I  think  she  called  her  her  beautiful  Mrs. 
Pascoe,  and  her  Helen  of  Troy." 

"  That's  her  name— Helen.    Fancy  old  Walkey!    What  a  joke!  " 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  wrong,  and  Walkey,  as  you 
call  her,  isn't  right  ? " 

"  Perhaps  she  is.  Perhaps  she's  right  when  she  says  my  ecclesi- 
astical sister  is  like  Elaine,  and  my  quarrelsome  sister  like  Joan  of 
Arc.  I  should  say  she  was  rather  a  flighty  sort  of  old  party.  Did 
she  say  this  to  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  her.  It  was  repeated  to  me  by  a  friend,  a  gentle- 
man I  know."  I  have  often  been  reminded  since  then  of  the  way 
in  which  A.  Addison  said  this,  by  young  ladies  who  have  not 
courted  catechism  about  some  collateral  gentleman-friend. 

I  felt  I  should  like  this  one  cleared  up — classed  and  located. 
I  suggested  that  perhaps  I  knew  his  name,  if  he  was  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Walkinshaw's.  But  the  name  Bretherton,  drily  admitted,  left 
me  no  wiser.  And  the  young  woman's  not  being  quite  certain  Mrs. 
Walkinshaw  was  not  some  sort  of  connection  was  no  help  at  all. 
That  old  lady's  ramifications  were  endless.  So  I  had  to  leave  him 
unravelled,  as  we  had  arrived  at  The  Ketreat. 

On  the  whole  I  was  not  sorry  that  it  was  my  stepmother  to 
whom  I  had  to  present  my  young  lady  acquaintance.  I  felt  the 
management  of  the  position  was  so  much  safer  in  her  hands. 

"  You  must  feel  as  if  we  had  no  business  here,  Miss  Addison," 
said  she,  taking  the  visitor  quite  as  a  matter  of  course. 

'*  I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't,"  was  the  answer,  with  a  whimsical 
expression  of  protest.  "Do  you  mind  my  feeling  tolerant,  if  I 
don't  say  so  ? " 

"  How  very  nicely  you  put  it ! "  said  my  stepmother.  "  When  I 
was  a  child  I  was  taken  to  an  old  house  of  ours,  and  I  believe  I 
wanted  to  bundle  the  new  tenants  out.  But  I  love  going  back 
into  a  den  one  has  lived  in.  I  felt  quite  jealous  once  when  this 
young  man  got  in  at  our  old  house  at  the  Square,  and  saw  all 
over  it." 

A.  Addison  was  just  asking  what  Square  was  that,  when  I  became 
aware  of  Raynes.  fraught  with  a  communication  to  me.  I  said  yes 
— what  was  it?  It  was  Mr.  Stauffer,  come  to  try  on.  I  showed 


486  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

impatience,  but  Jemima  said : — "  Nonsense,  Jackey,  you  told  the 
man  to  come.  Go  and  be  tried  on.  I'll  take  Miss  .  .  .  Addison 
into  the  garden."  The  pause  on  the  name  was  just  enough  to 
show  that  the  speaker,  though  moved  by  courtesy,  was  not  con- 
cerned with  the  identity  of  her  guest,  though  technically  quite 
aware  of  it.  I  went  away  to  be  tried  on. 

When  Mr.  Stauffer  had  drawn  enough  French  Chalk  memo- 
randa on  an  accidental  sartorial  pourparler  he  had  brought  with 
him,  to  enable  him  to  construct  a  definite  misfit,  I  returned  to  the 
two  ladies,  expecting  to  join  them  in  the  garden.  I  was  rather 
surprised  to  find  them  conversing,  apparently  with  interest,  on  the 
sofa  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Oh — here  he  is !  "  said  my  stepmother. 

"Were  you  talking  about  me?"  said  I. 

"  There  now ! — isn't  that  exactly  like  a  young  man,  Miss  Addi- 
son? They  are  so  vain  they  think  that  no  one  can  think  of 
anybody  else."  This  seemed  to  me  unfair,  as  Jemima's  words  as 
I  came  into  the  room  were  a  reference  to  me.  She  continued: — 
"  Oh  dear,  no-— we  were  talking  of  some  one  much  more  interest- 
ing." She  underlined  these  words,  so  to  speak,  that  Europe  might 
understand  that  the  interest  involved  a  young  lady  and  gentleman. 
She  appeared  to  check  her  speech  in  response  to  a  half -appealing 
deprecatory  look  from  her  visitor,  saying  in  extenuation : — "  Oh 
no — 7  shall  not  say  a  single  word  more.  I  am  discre- 
tion itself!" 

I  think  A.  Addison  was  just  beginning,  "  Not  on  my  account!  " 
when  the  door-knock  fructified,  and  Gracey  came  in  and  was 
pleasant.  But  she  afterwards  said  to  me : — "  Why  was  your  new 
ladylove  so  discomposed?  She  was  what  Cook  calls  'all  of  a  hur'. 
But  she's  a  dear,  I  quite  agree." 

We  went  in  the  garden,  and  Miss  Addison  identified  landmarks 
of  her  early  days.  Still,  there  was  a  chill  of  some  sort ;  and  in  my 
mind  a  horrible  misgiving,  which  I  was  fighting  off  as  best  I 
might;  keeping  always  in  view,  as  the  necessity  of  the  moment,  the 
pretence  that  no  such  misgiving  existed.  I  think  I  must  have  been 
improving  at  this  date,  for  I  remember  an  interlinear  wish  in  my 
mind's  manuscript — a  desire  to  protect  Gracey  from  a  disappoint- 
ment on  my  behalf. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait  for  my  own.  My  stepmother  had  the 
situation  well  in  hand,  and  I  can  still  think  with  gratitude  of  the 
way  she  managed  it.  A.  Addison  departed,  with  a  cordial  shake 
of  the  hand  for  each  of  us,  and  a  word  or  two  more  of  congratula- 
tion to  me  on  the  great  good  fortune  that  had  befallen  my  wood- 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  487 

block,  promoted  to  the  honour  of  being  cut  by  Mr.  Shrapnell  Him- 
self. Much  I  cared! 

Gracey  said,  after  her  words  just  put  on  record: — "Tell  me 
about  her  afterwards,  Jackey  darling.  I  must  go  and  wash  now 
furiously,  or  I  shan't  be  fit  for  lunch,  because  of  those  children." 
This  referred  to  sundry  National  Scholars,  for  the  education  of 
whom  she  had  taken  service  as  a  volunteer.  They  were,  she  said, 
good  but  stuffy;  and  called  for  soap  and  water  in  earnest,  to 
wash  them  off. 

My  stepmother,  unsaturated  with  school  children,  could  take  her 
time.  She  was  tainted  with  nothing  worse  than  shopping  among 
the  better  sort.  New  fabrics,  to  grace  that  sort,  have  a  flavour 
certainly,  but  it  is  a  flavour  of  cleanness. 

She  did  not  look  at  me,  after  Gracey's  departure  to  scour,  but 
grappled  with  some  hook-and-eye  difficulty  she  had  to  keep  her 
chin  clear  of  to  liberate  her  throat;  a  throat  Time  had  not  ravaged, 
so  far.  The  perverseness  of  this  fastening  called  for  intermittent 
censure  throughout  a  fragmentary  conversation  on  our  recent 
visitor. 

"Oh  dear! — girls  and  their  love  affairs!  .  .  .  Really  the 
people  that  make  these  things  are  downright  idiots " 

"  Suppose  you  let  me  try.    You  can't  see." 

"  No — you'll  only  make  it  worse.  There's  nothing  for  it  but 
patience.  .  .  .  Fancy  that  girl  telling  me !"  The  hook- 
and-eye  had  the  best  of  it  here,  but  it  was  of  service.  It  gave 
me  the  opportunity  of  showing  no  curiosity,  ostentatiously;  and 
Jemima  the  machinery  for  betraying  no  suspicion  that  I  had  any 
cause  for  it.  Neither  of  us  was  deceived,  but  each  was  at  liberty 
to  ascribe  faith  in  successful  dissimulation  to  the  other.  That  did 
as  well. 

I  concentrated  on  the  peccant  hook,  or  eye.  "  It's  flattened,"  I 
said.  "  It  wants  a  knife  to  open  it." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Jemima,  "and  cut  my  throat!  .  .  . 
There!  it's  come  at  last.  .  .  .  What  was  I  saying?  Oh — fancy 
that  girl  telling  me  all  about  her  engagement!  " 

"What!— A.  Addison?  Who's  A.  Addison  engaged  to?  Who's 
the  lucky  man? "  I  think  this  last  question  was  a  failure.  It  was 
too  ambitious.  It  did  not  matter.  My  stepmother's  accepted 
role  was  that  of  blindness. 

For  all  that,  I  caught  her  eyes  resting  on  me  for  a  moment. 
"  Nobody  one  knows,"  said  she.  "  I  can't  remember  the  name.  I 
daresay  I  shall  directly.  Carry  my  cloak  up  for  me,  that's  a  good 
boy!  ...  'No—I'll  take  the  parcel.  You'll  crush  it." 


488  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

And  we  both  of  us  felt — at  least  I  am  sure  /  did — that  we  were 
doing  it  beautifully! 

The  frame  of  mind  of  a  young  man  who,  conceiving  that  he 
has  just  lighted  on  a  prey  for  his  Soul,  finds  he  has  been  pro- 
posing to  devour  another  man's  banquet,  has  no  name  for  it  that 
I  can  supply.  I  do  not  repent  of  this  description  of  the  state  of 
unreasoning  perturbation  into  which  I  was  thrown  by  discovering 
that  a  girl  whom  I  had  a  fancy  for  wasn't  for  me,  but  for  some- 
body else.  The  strangest  thing  about  it  was,  that  up  to  the  moment 
of  this  discovery,  I  was  quite  in  the  dark  about  the  degree  of  her 
importance  to  me.  She  had  leapt  into  imperial  power  over  my 
heart,  absolutely  unconsciously  to  herself,  in  the  course  of  one 
or  two  interviews;  and  the  fatal  truth  had  been  sprung  upon  me 
that  the  hand  that  had  dwelt  in  my  memory,  the  wandering  locks 
it  had  kept  in  their  proper  place,  the  long-lashed  eyes  whose  colour 
I  could  find  no  name  for,  the  lips  that  made  each  unconsidered 
trifle  of  speech  a  thing  to  recollect — that  these  things  one  and  all 
were  my  Universe;  and  that  all  that  I  had  counted  mine  before 
was  but  as  dust  in  the  balance,  mere  flotsam  in  the  stream  of  life. 
And  yet,  up  to  that  moment,  had  I  been  told  of  what  was  in  store 
for  me,  by  Omniscience  itself,  I  should  have  discredited  my  in- 
formant, and  told  him — or  it — to  mind  his  or  its  own  business. 

I  could  now  understand,  plainly,  that  psychological  moment  in 
the  Artist  Colourman's,  when  my  expression  of  regret  that  my 
block  had  been  given  over  to  a  master  hand  by  A.  Addison  produced 
on  her  face  that  sudden  unsettled  look  of  doubt  I  could  see  that 
a  new  light  had  broken  on  her,  causing  her  to  say  to  herself, 
probably: — "Oh  dear! — here's  another.  How  is  this  deserving 
young  man,  whom  really  I  scarcely  know,  to  be  headed  off  in 
time  to  save  me  from  responsibility  for  his  peace  of  mind  ? "  I 
could  see  that  the  readiness  with  which  she  accepted  the  gloss  I 
then  made  use  of  to  cover  my  speech  was  no  more  than  a  working 
expedient  to  lubricate  chat  and  avert  a  catastrophe  of  mutual  con- 
sciousness. I  discerned  further  what  that  "Oh — your  sister!" 
had  meant.  She  had  seen  a  possible  way  out  of  the  wood.  How 
much  easier  to  breathe  the  truth  to  an  aspirant's  sister  than  to 
himself!  It  was  all  accounted  for — that  stinted  acceptance  of  her 
position  in  the  cab,  and  all ! 

I  have  since  come  to  the  knowledge  that  girls  have  little  difficulty 
in  warning  off  young  men  who  approach  them  with  discretion  and 
caution.  When  the  repulse  is  gradual,  it  is  always  doubtful  which 
is  responsible,  and  no  one's  amour  propre  suffers.  When  on  the 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  489 

contrary  a  young  man  begins  making  love — I  am  repeating  words 
since  used  to  me  by  a  young  lady — like  a  Mad  Bull,  and  not  like 
a  Reasonable  Christian,  what  can  one  do?  I  am  afraid  that  I 
perhaps  erred  in  the  direction  indicated.  Fancy  saying  "  You " 
with  a  capital  letter,  to  a  girl  on  so  short  an  acquaintance!  But 
was  it  possible  for  A.  Addison  to  say : — "  Keep  your  pronouns  to 
yourself !  I  love  another  ?  " 

Gracey,  freed  from  the  flavour  of  her  National  School,  was  on 
the  lookout  for  me,  merely  rinsed,  by  comparison,  when  I  came 
down  to  lunch.  She  was  resplendent  and  full  of  expectation. 
"  Well!"  said  she,  with  heartfelt  emphasis. 

I  was  glad  to  have  a  case  for  well-defined  dissimulation.  "  Well 
what?"  said  I.  "  Cut  along  in.  There's  lunch." 

"  No  there  isn't.  At  least,  Papa's  not  come  out  of  his  library. 
Tell  me  things  about  A.  Addison.  How  did  you  get  her  here  ? " 

"  In  an  ordinary  human  cab.  You  must  ask  Jemima  about 
her.  She's  got  something  to  tell  you  you'll  be  interested  in."  I 
think  I  succeeded  in  speaking  in  the  empresse  way  which  advertises 
a  sub-intent  of  this  particular  sort. 

"Oh,  Jackey,  there  now!  Don't  tell  me  you're  going  to  say 
that  A.  Addison's  engaged  to  be  married!'' 

"  Get  along  in  to  lunch !    Here's  the  Governor." 

Again,  I  thought  I  had  done  it  very  well.  And  perhaps  I  had. 
For  Gracey  afterwards  admitted  to  me  that  at  the  time  she  had 
no  idea  I  was  "so  bad"  about.  .  .  .  Well! — about  the  girl  I 
afterwards  married.  My  pen  hung  fire  over  writing  it,  just  as  if 
I  had  been  writing  a  story,  with  a  plot  and  a  denouement. 

"Who  was  the  very  nice-looking  girl,  who  went  out  about 
twenty  minutes  ago?"  My  father  spoke,  at  lunch.  But  I  think 
he  wanted  to  change  the  conversation,  which  had  turned  on  his 
persistent  inobservance  of  the  regimen  the  great  specialist  had 
sentenced  him  to. 

"  She's  a  Miss "  My  stepmother  looked  to  Gracey  for  help. 

Not  that,  I  suppose,  she  had  forgotten  the  name  Addison,  but  that 
she  was  not  disposed  to  admit  her  recollection  of  it. 

"Addison,  but  is  she  engaged  or  not?  That's  the  question. 
What  did  she  say  to  you.  Aunt  Helen  ? " 

"  My  dear,  I  hardly  recollect.  Something  about  some  gentleman. 
There  always  is  a  ...  Do  take  the  potatoes  away  from  your 
father,  Gracey.  They  are  directly  contrary  to  Sir  Alcibiades 
Rayson's  orders.  .  .  .  Well! — don't  let  him  have  two,  anyhow. 
There  always  is  a  gentleman." 


490  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

My  father  said : — "  It  would  be  rather  flat  for  the  lady,  with- 
out one — a  flat  engagement!"  And  Gracey  said: — "Do  try  and 
recollect  his  name,  Aunt  Helen."  I  think  that — for  a  young  man 
whose  nerves  were  all  on  edge  to  hear  the  next  word — I  succeeded 
in  showing  indifference  very  cleverly.  I  still  think  it  was  clever  in 
mo  to  say : — "  She  mentioned  some  chap,  in  the  cab." 

"  That  was  him,  of  course,"  said  Gracey.  My  father  asked, 
pertinently : — "  Do  ladies  only  mention  gentlemen  they  are  en- 
gaged to  marry,  in  cabs?"  Gracey  replied  that  this  turned  on 
what  was  meant  by  mentioning.  There  were  ways  and  ways  of 
mentioning  people,  and  she  had  understood  me  to  refer  to  a  par- 
ticular sort.  "You  meant  that,  Jackey,  didn't  you?"  said  she. 
And  my  stepmother  made  a  slight  note  of  interrogation  with  her 
eyebrows,  and  acknowledged  my  general  assent  with  a  we-under- 
stand-one-another  nod.  "  Can't  you  remember  the.  name  ? "  she 
asked. 

Of  course  I  could,  perfectly  well.  But  I  pretended  I  couldn't. 
However,  I  deemed  it  advisable  a  few  moments  later,  when  the 
conversation  had  wandered  away  somewhere  else,  to  say  sud- 
denly:— "Was  the  name  Bretherton?"  As  if  it  had  just  occurred 
to  me. 

My  stepmother  turned  to  me  to  think  if  I  was  right — for  her 
conclusion  was : — "  Yes,  that  was  it,  Bretherton." 

"  Say  it  again !  "  said  my  father.  When  we  had  both  done  so, 
he  said  hm! — but  otherwise  let  Bretherton  drop.  Then  the  con- 
versation provided  itself  with  other  topics,  for  the  moment.  But  I 
saw  by  a  certain  watchfulness  in  Gracey's  eyes  that  she  meant  to 
have  an  explanation  from  my  father,  after  that  hm!  of  why  he 
wanted  the  name  repeated.  And  sure  enough,  no  sooner  had 
Raynes  died  away  finally  than  Gracey  revived  Mr.  Bretherton. 
"  Did  you  know  somebody  of  that  name,  Papa  ?  Because  you  said 
hm!  You  know  you  did." 

"  One  may  say  hm! "  said  my  father,  "  and  yet  not  know  a 
person  of  the  name  of  Bretherton." 

"  Nonsense,  Papa,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Well — there  was  a  fellow  of  that  name,  who  got  the  sack  at 
the  Office.  I  can't  say  I  knew  him.  He  wasn't  any  good.  Some 
years  ago  now.  .  .  .  Never  mind  him!  Impossible  he  should 
be  the  same  man!  Why — that  fellow  must  be  going  on  for  fifty 
now,  if  he  hasn't  come  to  the  gallows.  Not  unlikely." 

I  think  we  all  felt  that,  in  view  of  A.  Addison's  visible  early 
twenties,  we  might  discard  this  Mr.  Bretherton  as  her  possible 
fiance. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN 

I  SAW  very  little  alteration  in  my  father  about  this  time,  and 
what  I  did  see  I  ascribed  to  his  change  from  active  employment  to 
that  very  unsatisfactory  condition,  a  life  of  leisure.  He  was 
desoeuvre,  and  had  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  After  his  resigna- 
tion he  kept  up  for  awhile  a  pretext  that  now  at  last  he  could  find 
time  to  attend  to  sundry  jobs  that  had  been  awaiting  him  for 
years  past;  but  none  of  them  seemed  to  bear  examination,  unless 
perhaps  it  was  what  he  called  getting  his  books  in  order.  He  had  a 
fair  number  of  books,  and  I  have  never  felt  my  indebtedness  to 
Literature  more  than  when  I  saw  that  years  of  classification  might 
be  devoted  to  the  arrangement  of  a  very  small  library,  with  a  due 
observance  of  Method — a  proper  attention  to  System.  Given  both, 
a  folio  Classic  published  at  Lugdunum  Batavorum,  and  never 
opened  since  it  came  to  Augusta  Trinobantum,  could  quite  well 
be  made  the  subject  of  a  day's  industry.  There  is  nothing  like 
System. 

I  always  fancy  that  there  exists  a  class  of  venerable  gentlemen 
— I  think  of  them  broadly  as  Rural  Deans ;  but  that  may  be  due  to 
a  low  standard  of  Ecclesiastical  knowledge — who  lead  blameless 
lives  in  the  most  fascinating  Rectories  with  an  unflagging  smell 
of  honeysuckle  at  most  times  of  the  year,  and  Churches  with 
tumbledown  pews  and  no  Memorial  Windows,  and  what  is  better 
no  Funds  for  a  Judicious  Restoration;  which  one  hopes,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  is  a  source  of  joy  in  Heaven.  These  lives  are  lives 
of  leisure — learned  leisure,  what's  more! — and  these  veterans  lead 
them,  with  smiles  and  frequent  quotations,  and  a  cellar  of  rare  old 
wine  in  the  background,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  nothing  can 
organize  perfection  further.  They  have  all  the  works  worth  read- 
ing, and  each  has  enjoyed  a  place  to  itself  for  a  century.  They 
never  read  any  other  works.  I  hope  they  won't. 

These  Rural  Deans  may  be  a  dream  of  mine,  or — like  stage- 
coaches and  roadside  inns,  and  The  Waits — may  have  existed  once, 
and  now  have  vanished  for  ever.  The  latter,  I  think;  for  I  find 
that  in  the  land  of  my  imagination,  Dr.  Johnson  and  Boswell  go 
to  call  upon  them,  and  are  received  with  open  arms.  That  is  it, 

491 


492  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

depend  upon  it!  Learned  leisure  is  a  thing  of  the  Past,  and  has 
no  place  at  a  date  that  everything  has  to  be  up  to,  if  it  wants  to  be 
Modern.  But  this  date  of  which  I  write  was  still  a  long  half- 
century  ago,  when  Electricity  was  little  more  than  a  Scientific 
Recreation;  when  Research  had  to  cut  Subjects  up  alive  in  secret, 
and  Flying  Machines  were  very  interesting,  but  couldn't  go  up 
in  the  air;  when  Punch  was  almost  unsullied  with  advertisements, 
and  London  hadn't  got  to  Putney. 

My  father  was  unable,  in  the  nature  of  things,  to  enjoy  Learned 
Leisure  in  its  fulness,  like  a  Rural  Dean,  for  want  of  the  happy 
faculty  that  class — or  my  image  of  it — had  of  recollecting  appro- 
priate Passages,  and  supplying  Elegiacs  to  meet  almost  any 
emergency.  But  he  could  and  did  make  a  considerable  amount  of 
occupation  for  himself  out  of  getting  his  books  in  order. 

It  was  a  pastime  with  a  drawback,  which  seemed  to  me  a  serious 
one.  There  was  so  often  a  volume  wanting.  The  moment  the 
deficiency  was  established,  the  long  line  of  unread  volumes,  with 
indistinct  lettering  on  the  backs,  that  had  from  Time  immemorial 
occupied  their  shelf  or  shelves,  and  been  an  unmixed  joy  to  Igno- 
rance, bocame  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Erudition,  who  had  only 
herself  to  blame  for  looking  inside  the  said  volumes.  Their 
previous  appearance  behind  glass  was  above  suspicion,  and  ac- 
quired force  from  the  fact  that  the  bookcase  was  locked.  But  the 
moment  that  Erudition  took — more  suo — to  examining  title-pages, 
and  lighted  on  Vol:  n  of  a  work  of  which  only  n~l  volumes  were 
visible,  all  the  fat  was  in  the  fire;  and  she  was  thereafter  unablr 
to  look  upon  the  same  edition  of  the  same  work,  complete,  in 
possession  of  a  rival  bibliographer,  without  rankling  envy  and 
an  unholy  desire  to  bone  only  just  one  volume,  to  fill  up  the  gap 
in  her  own  bookshelf.  I  recall  one  absentee  in  particular,  which 
my  father  was  inconsolable  about — one  of  a  series  which  I  am  con- 
fident had  never  been  read  by  a  living  man,  until  he  opened  on  the 
title-page  of  the  third  volume  and  looked  for  the  second.  Xo — T 
am  sure  that  large  quarto  Rapin — Histoire  d'Angleterre — had  lived 
on  bookshelves,  from  the  day  it  fivst  found  a  place  on  one,  till  its 
reader,  the  only  one  it  had  known,  discovered  that  it  was  im- 
perfect. 

Varnish's  views  on  our  library  were  a  sort  of  refinement  and 
intensification  of  those  of  any  hardened  librarian.  "  Why  your 
par  do  that  pret  and  that  fuss,  my  dears,  about  on'y  one  book  in 
sixteen,  and  no  consideration  that  there  wouldn't  be  room  for  it 
back  again,  if  found,  that  is  more  than  T  can  say  or  ever  shall. 
However  another  be  ok  could  be  got  in  he  don't  give  a  thought  to ; 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  493 

and  I  say,  let  alone  and  be  thankful !  "  The  doctrine  implied,  that 
books  are  the  contents  of  libraries,  seems  to  me  to  be  pure  unadul- 
terated Bibliography.  I  had  less  sympathy  with  Varnish  on  this 
point  than  on  that  of  the  volume  chosen.  "  If  they'd  'a  took  the 
one  at  the  far  end,  or  the  right,"  said  she,  "  it  wouldn't  have 
unevened  it  anything  like.  But  taking  out  of  the  middle  was 
done  for  spitefulness,  anybody  can  see." 

I  mentioned  this  view  to  my  father,  to  make  talk,  on  the  evening 
of  that  discovery  of  A.  Addison's  position  in — or  out  of — the 
marriage  market.  That  is  what  set  me  off  writing  all  this  about 
his  library.  He  agreed  with  Varnish.  "  That's  perfectly  true," 
said  he.  "  The  thief  knew  he  was  taking  the  edge  off  fourteen 
volumes,  while  if  he  had  abstracted  Vol.  15  he  would  only  have 
spoiled  Vol.  16.  The  reader  could  have  pretended  the  writer  Had 
died  just  in  the  nick.  Besides,  History  always  gets  stupider  and 
stupider,  and  nobody  ever  reads  more  than  halfway." 

I  recognized  this  as  a  fundamental  truth  of  the  human  mind. 
"  Of  course !  "  I  said.  "  Edward  the  Confessor  is  heaps  better  fun 
than  George  the  Third.  We  used  to  like  doing  Anglo-Saxons  and 
the  Norman  Conquest." 

"  Very  clearly  put ! "  said  my  father.  "  At  the  same  time  I 
read  between  the  lines  that  you  regard  History  as  a  thing  boys 
do  at  school.  That  is  a  popular  view  of  the  case,  and  one  I  in- 
cline to,  myself.  All  the  same,  I  wish  I  could  remember  some  of 
it." 

"Can't  you?" 

My  father  shook  his  head  slowly,  stinting  an  unqualified  assent. 
At  last  he  conceded  the  point,  without  reserve.  "  No,"  said  he, 
abruptly,  "  I  can  remember  nothing,  nowadays.  I  believe  it's 
Sir  Thingummybob's  medicine.  Or  the  diet." 

"  You're  as  bad  as  Jemima,  Pap !  She's  more  sleepless  than  ever 
so  she  says — since  she  has  been  taking  little  Scammony's 
stuff." 

My  father  was  just  like  every  one  else  about  doctors.  They 
were  good  for  other  people,  bad  for  him.  "  That's  because  she 
doesn't  take  it  regularly,"  said  he.  "  Sometimes  she  misses  a 
whole  day.  I  shall  not  try  the  same  way  with  Sir  Alcibiades.  Be- 
cause it  isn't  playing  fair,  and  I'm  not  a  lady." 

"Don't  ladies  play  fair?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  They  only  play  a  very  little  fairer  than  we  do 
— five  per  cent  at  most.  But  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  that 
if  I  was  caught  cheating,  I  could  not  carry  it  off  so  gracefully  as 
a  lady.  I  should  look  sheepish."  Then  after  a  few  moments  of 


494  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

amused  reflection,  he  said  suddenly : — "  But  what  set  us  off  upon 
this  ? " 

"  Your  memory." 

"  To  be  sure.  And  Sir  Alcibiades'  medicine.  But  I  can  re- 
member nothing,  nowaday^.  It's  quite  true.  I've  been  trying  ever 
since  lunch  to  remember  what  it  is  I  recollect  about  that 
man  that's  engaged  to  that  girl — at  least  with  the  same 
name." 

"  Which  girl  ? "  I  pretended  I  didn't  know ;  then  made  believe 
I  had  suddenly  recalled  which,  saying : — '*  Oh  yes,  I  know — A. 
Addison.  What  was  the  fellow's  name — Blatherwick  ?  "  This  was 
deceptions,  as  the  name  was  burnt  into  my  understanding,  and 
indelible. 

<:  Xo — not  Blatherwick — Bretherton.  You  see,  Jackey,  he's  on 
my  conscience.  One  doesn't  like  to  say  a  man's  a  shady  customer, 
and  then  to  feel  that  one  hasn't  got  particulars,  if  applied  to  for 
them." 

"  You  won't  be  applied  to.    It  was  only  us." 

11  Meaning  that  it  was  inside  the  family  circle.  I  hope  that's 
sufficient.  You  said  she  had  mentioned  his  name  to  you.  Didn't 
she  tell  you  anything  about  him  ? " 

"  Nothing  whatever.  His  context — what  brought  him  in — was 
old  Walkey.  He  had  repeated  something  she  said,  about  us." 

"Complimentary,  of  course?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes ! — all  butter.  I  understood  he  was  a  friend  of 
hers;  some  sort  of  connection,  I  think." 

My  father  remarked  absently  that  that  old  lady  was  "  a  family- 
wamily "  sort  of  person,  which  appeared  to  me  expressive.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  revive  some  recollection,  for  he  once  or 

twice  began  asking: — "  What  was  that ?  Who  was  that ?  " 

and  hung  fire  over  the  question.  Gracey  came  into  the  room,  and 
looked  for  a  book  and  found  it,  and  then  leaned  on  the  back  of  his 
armchair.  She  picked  up  the  last  scrap  of  the  conversation,  to 
come  into  it.  "  Who  was  what.  Pubsy  darling?  "  said  she.  For  we 
were  like  that,  at  home.  Every  one  was  always  supposed  to  be  in 
every  other's  confidence. 

"  Nobody  you  know,  Miss  Inquisitive  Chit.  Some  people  op- 
posite us  in  the  Square,  a  hundred  years  ago.  That's  what  it 
seems  like — a  hundred.  .  .  .  Let  me  see  though — you  must  have 
been  about  eight " 

'•  That's  all  right.  I'm  just  a  hundred-and-eight  next  birthday. 
[Who  were  the  people  opposite  us  in  the  Square?" 

"  I  was  trying  for  the  name.    They  used  to  call  and  leave  cards. 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  495 

The  woman  played  the  piano.  The  man  was  at  the  Bar;  it's  his 
name  I'm  trying  to  get  at.  It  was  this  little  girl's  name — Addison 
— put  him  into  my  head.  I  remembered  your  dear  mamma  saying 
that  Mr. — whatever  his  name  was ! — had  married  a  Miss  Addison. 
Now  I  shan't  be  comfortable  till  I  can  think  of  his  name.  What 
the  deuce  was  it?"  His  inability  to  recollect  was  so  evident  a 
discomfort  to  him,  that  both  Gracey  and  I  cast  about  for  names 
borne  by  early  denizens  of  the  Square,  without  any  success.  I 
wonder,  now,  that  I  did  not  hit  upon  it  at  once.  In  the  end 
Gracey,  seeing  that  he  was  really  plagued  by  this  elusive  name,  said 
she  should  go  and  ask  Varnish. 

Varnish  always  remembered  the  minutest  particulars  of  the 
life  of  Mecklenburg  Square,  in  our  day.  My  father  showed  how 
confident  he  was  of  a  profitable  result  by  calling  out  after 
Gracey : — "  Tell  her  the  people  who  were  at  forty-six  before  the 
Matheisons  came."  I  suggested  that  probably  my  stepmother 
would  remember.  He  replied : — "  She  might,  or  might  not.  But 
Varnish  is  sure  to." 

We  smoked  peacefully,  listening  to  the  colloquy  afar,  which 
was  quite  audible,  as  Gracey  had  left  the  door  open.  The  tone  of 
it  spoke  of  full  details  and  elucidation,  interwoven  with  expressions 
of  surprise  from  Varnish  that  any  quarter  of  Europe  should  be 
uninformed  as  to  the  names  and  dates  of  all  residents  in  Mecklen- 
burg Square  during  its  palmy  days,  videlicet  our  own;  which 
were  to  her  what  the  days  of  the  Caesars  were  to  the  Roman 
historian. 

Presently  Gracey  returned,  triumphant  and  full  of  information. 
She  came  into  the  room  with  the  name  sought  for  on  her  tongue's 
tip,  and  uttered  it  promptly,  that  it  should  not  remain  forgotten 
a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary.  "Fraser!"  said  she  em- 
phatically, adding: — "I  knew  I  should  know  it  the  minute  I 
heard  it."  And  my  father  said : — "  Of  course : — that  was  it !  The 
Frasers."  He  seemed  relieved. 

Gracey  gave  us  a  resume  of  Varnish's  communication.  An 
obstacle  had  delayed  her  revelation  of  the  name;  to  wit,  her  con- 
viction of  the  impossibility  that  any  sane  person,  of  the  Augustan 
period  aforesaid,  should  have  suffered  a  lapse  of  memory  on  a 
point  so  important.  "  There  now,  Miss  Gracey !  "  she  had  said. 
u  You'll  never  be  telling  me  your  par  can't  remember  who  it  was 
at  forty-six!"  To  which  Gracey  had  answered: — "Well — I  can't, 
Varnish,  anyhow."  The  reply  was : — "  No,  Miss  Gracey,  and  good 
reason,  too,  by  token  you  wasn't  out  of  the  nursery  when  the  lady 
at  forty-six  visited  with  your  mar.  Why,  you  was  not  to  say 


496  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

lengthened  when  the  least  of  forty-six  was  took  over  by  the 
Matheisons." 

"I  feel  perfectly  certain,"  said  Gracey,  "that  Varnish  thinks 
the  lease  of  a  house  has  a  T  in  it.  There  is  some  idea,  I  fancy, 
that  it  is  the  least  period  the  landlord  will  let  it  for.  I  know  she 
thinks  of  him  as  a  sort  of  ogre  who  has  his  tenant'in  a  trap.  .  .  . 
Well — I  ventured  to  say  I  could  recollect  many  things  before  I 
was  lengthened,  but  the  people  at  forty-six  didn't  happen  to  be 
among  them.  I  think  Varnish  preferred  the  view  that  girls' 
Memory  begins  with  their  grown-up  skirts.  But  if  mine  did  go 
back  to  those  early  days  I  surely  must  remember  Adaropposite." 

"Remember  what?"  said  my  father.  "Is  it  a  thing  or  a 
person  ? " 

"  It  was  a  little  girl,  and  a  very  pretty  little  girl,  it  seems. 
I  fancy  I  recollect  her  nurse  bringing  her  into  the  Square  from 
forty-six,  and  that  she  was  the  Frasers'  little  girl.  Only  I  think 
she  liked  little  boys  best,  and  didn't  care  to  play  with  us  girls.  You 
ought  to  recollect  her,  Jackey,  for  Varnish  says  you  banged  her 
iiose  with  the  garden-roller  handle,  and  it  left  an  awful  scar.  So 
after  that  she  wasn't  allowed  to  play  with  any  of  us  either  girls  or 
boys." 

li  Oh  yes!  "  said  I.  "  I  remember  Adaropposite.  I  took  it  to  be 
her  christened  name,  and  had  to  be  undeceived." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  said  my  father.  "  Oh — I  see !  Her  name  was 
Ada,  and  she  lived  opposite — on  the  other  side  of  the  Square. 
How  exactly  like  Varnish !  I  fancy  I  remember  hearing  about 
that  at  the  time."  He  dwelt  on  his  amusement  at  an  absurdity, 
but  I  could  see  how  the  memory  of  the  epoch  it  belonged  to  mixed 
in  with  it  and  made  his  face  sad. 

For  the  moment  some  concern  at  this  held  me;  but  it  passed, 
leaving  my  mind  at  odds  with  some  strange  complexity  of  ideas 
I  could  not  define.  The  image  of  the  very  pretty  little  girl  with 
the  composite  name,  long  forgotten,  come  back  to  me,  but  rather 
as  the  recollection  of  a  recollection.  For  it  had  scarcely  entered 
my  mind  when  its  place  was  usurped  by  that  of  my  school-friend 
of  old.  I  could  see  him  as  he  stood  by  the  unchanged  iron  railings 
that  kept  the  Square  sacred,  listening  to  my  narrative  of  this 
very  incident  of  the  roller  and  the  nose,  and  evidently  looking 
forward  to  his  condemnation  of  it  as  a  flat  incident.  This  'was  on 
the  occasion  of  that  valedictory  visit  of  ours  to  the  Square  when 
he  was  on  the  point  of  departing  for  India. 

Then  came  an  inexplicable,  chaotic  intermixture  of  past  and 
present,  for  which  I  could  find  no  reason  then,  and  can  find  no 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  49? 

reason  now,  unless  I  am  to  suppose  an  undercurrent  of  suspicion 
in  my  mind,  which  the  very  fact  of  my  prompt  dismissal  of  it 
condemns  as  untenable.  The  face  of  A.  Addison,  just  as  it  looked 
at  me  in  the  cab,  would  intrude  itself  on  the  revived  image  of  my 
little  victim  of  over  fifteen  years  ago — would  as  it  were  flicker 
across  all  continuity  of  Memory,  and  make  a  re-arrangement  of  the 
incidents  that  followed  impossible.  How  was  I  to  formulate  recol- 
lection of  a  past  I  had  clean  forgotten,  when  a  vivid  present 
flashed  into  it  the  moment  it  seemed  on  the  way  to  become  intel- 
ligible? That  this  was  not  the  result  of  that  scar  on  the  intruding 
face  I  am  convinced,  for  I  should  at  once  have  jumped  at  it  as  a 
solution  of  perplexity.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  never  consciously 
connected  the  two  things  together,  and  I  am  still  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  the  phenomenon,  except  indeed  by  making  a  dive  into 
Psychology — or  something  else  beginning  with  Psycho — where  I 
should  be  out  of  my  depth.  It  is  moreover  a  subject  which,  in 
conclave  with  my  Self,  I  have,  so  to  speak,  sworn  off,  because  ex- 
cursions into  it  flever  leave  me  a  penny  the  wiser.  Is  the  experi- 
ence of  others,  I  wonder,  so  very  unlike  mine? 

My  disjointed  dream  lasted  until  Gracey's,  ''Well,  Jackey?" 
showing  that  she  expected  comment  from  me  on  the  roller  incident 
of  my  infancy,  caused  me  to  shake  free  of  this  intrusion  of  A. 
Addison,  and  to  set  it  down  as  part  of  my  general  obsession  of 
her  image.  I  roused  myself  to  say : — "  I  suppose  she  was  Ada 
Fraser.  Only  I  doubt  if  I  knew  it  at  the  time.  I  may  have, 
though,  for  I  remember  mixing  her  up  with  the  things  that  came 
in  the  milk — you  know? — what  we  used  to  call  frasers,  when  we 
were  kids  in  the  nursery." 

Gracey  accepted  this  memory  with  gravity,  as  a  thing  perfectly 
natural.  u  Yes — of  course  they  were  frasers !  "  Then,  as  if  she 
doubted  the  word  for  the  first  time: — "  They  are,  aren't  they?" 

"Not  in  the  dictionary!"  said  my  father.  "I  think  I  can 
answer  for  that,  without  looking." 

Gracey  seemed  hurt.  "  But  they  are  frasers,"  she  said.  "  Natur- 
ally. One  only  has  to  look  at  them,  to  see." 

I  confirmed  this;  and,  against  two  such  rooted  convictions,  my 
father  could  say  nothing.  I  continued,  a  little  touched  in  con- 
science I  suppose,  by  my  recollection  of  a  past  enormity: — "I 
wonder  whether  Ada  Fraser's  nose  came  to  rights." 

"Must  have!"  said  Gracey.  "Think  what  an  age  ago  it  was  I 
She's  outgrown  it  by  now,  anyhow." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  my  father.  "  Scars  stick,  some- 
times. But — about  her  parents!  The  little  nosey  girl's,  I  mean. 


498  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

I  recollect  Mr.  Fraser,  and  I  recollect  your  mamma  saying  he 
married  a  Miss  Addison.  Now  suppose  she  christened  her  little 
girl  after  herself,  what  was  her  name  before  she  married?  There's 
a  conundrum  for  you." 

I  was  just  going  to  utter  the  name,  when  an  apparently  un- 
warrantable coincidence  stopped  me.  I  simply  could  not  utter  the 
syllables  in  the  face  of  it. 

Gracey  was  under  no  such  restraint.  "  Ada  Addison,"  said  she 
pointblank.  But  in  an  instant,  the  oddity  of  that  coincidence  had 
possession  of  her  too,  and  crept  out  through  her  puzzled  blue  eyes. 
"  Weil — that  is  queer !  "  said  she. 

"What  is?"  said  my  stepmother,  who  had  come  into  the  room 
unnoticed  by  me.  "  You  all  seem  very  much  interested.  I  came 
to  see  what  all  the  talk  was  about."  Being  told,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  she  showed  less  interest  than  would  have  been  warranted  by 
the  circumstances;  appearing,  however,  anxious  to  get  the  facts 
accurately,  asking  for  them  twice  over  and  so  forth,  but  yawning 
slightly  over  the  prolixity  she  had  brought  upon  herself.  When 
Gracey,  as  prolocutrix,  had  ended  up,  she  said  drily: — "Certainly 
a  curious  coincidence.  But  one  sees  the  name  is  a  coincidence, 
because  of  the  nose.  If  the  one,  why  not  the  other?"  Then  she 
inveigled  Gracey  away  to  the  drawing-room,  urging  us  not  to  be 
so  late  as  we  were  last  night. 

My  father  commented  on  the  attitude  of  mankind  towards  Coin- 
cidence, calling  her  Incredulity's  maid  of  all  work.  She  purified 
the  Intellectual  Atmosphere  of  Superstition,  but  at  the  risk  of 
disestablishing  Cause  and  Effect.  He  drew  a  picture  of  The 
Cautious  Inquirer  on  his  birthday,  "  pointing  out "  that  we  should 
suspend  our  judgment  as  to  the  sun  being  the  cause  of  the  dawn. 
The  appearance  of  the  two  at  the  same  moment  might,  for  any- 
thing we  could  know,  be  a  fortuitous  coincidence.  He  would 
condemn  his  parents'  testimony  as  to  the  frequency  of  the  phe- 
nomenon, as  worthless,  saying  we  ought  to  hear  professional  wit- 
nesses, before  jumping  to  conclusions.  Ought  we  not  to  take  a 
leaf  out  of  the  book  of  The  Cautious  Inquirer?  Here  now  was 
a  case  in  point.  What  did  it  amount  to?  A  young  woman  had 
the  same  name  as  a  little  girl,  and  the  same  surname  as  the 
little  girl's  mother  before  she  married.  Well — what  of  that?  Why 
shouldn't  she? 

Why  not.  indeed?  Put  that  way,  I  became  alive  to  the  fact  that 
there  was  really  nothing  to  account  for.  Then,  clearly  my  sense 
of  mystification  ought  to  have  disappeared  on  the  spot.  But  it 
didn't.  Something  kept  it  alive,  and  I  couldn't  tell  what.  It  was, 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  499 

however,  at  liberty  to  make  believe  it  was  extinct,  and  did  so  with 
a  fair  amount  of  success.  We  said  nothing  further,  having  got  the 
coincidence  pooh-poohed,  but  I  carried  it  into  the  drawing-room  as 
a  subcutaneous  puzzle — a  fourmillement  under  my  spiritual  epi- 
dermis. 

I  felt  sure,  as  we  came  in,  that  Jemima  and  Gracey  stopped  an 
earnest  conversation,  just  as  one  of  them  said: — "I  say — say 
nothing !  "  and  the  other  replied : — "  So  do  I."  Of  course  this 
caused  inquiry  as  to  what  nothing  was  to  be  said  about.  The 
reply  was  that  it  was  nothing  that  concerned  either  of  us,  and 
that  men  were  so  curious. 

It  gives  me  pleasure,  when  I  get  on  a  line  of  revival  of  the  past, 
to  resuscitate  the  smallest  particulars.  The  foregoing  is  an  in- 
stance of  an  effort  in  this  direction,  made  without  regard  to  the 
number  of  words  it  called  for,  or  indeed  of  the  chances  of  their 
intelligibility  to  any  one  except  the  writer.  Not  that  I  can  guar- 
antee that  every  sentence  in  it,  if  re-read  by  my  Self,  would  be 
comprehensible. 

I  take  it  that  my  father  certainly,  Gracey  probably,  and  my  step- 
mother possibly,  were  in  the  dark  about  the  effect  upon  me  of  my 
short  acquaintance  with  the  young  woman  whose  name  had  been 
the  indirect  cause  of  this  conversation.  One  knows,  or  says  one 
knows,  how  a  momentary  image  of  a  Juliet — a  mere  glimpse — 
will  light  a  consuming  fire  in  the  bosom  of  a  Romeo.  Yet  very 
few  of  us  have  known  a  shaft  of  Cupid  to  reach  its  mark  with 
such  a  deadly  precision.  We  are  generally  content  to  suppose,  each 
one  of  us,  that  undying  passion  is  possible  to  our  own  nature,  owing 
to  a  certain  Divinity  which  we  are  pleased  to  recognize  in  both. 
But  we  ascribe  it  with  a  good  deal  of  reserve  to  some  one  else. 
Nevertheless — and  it  is  odd  that  it  should  be  so — the  greatest 
readiness  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  a  grande  passion  is  not 
found  in  minds  one  thinks  of  as  angelic;  no  youth  if  he  had  to 
choose  between  an  Arthur  and  a  Lancelot  with  a  little  consolatory 
Devil  in  his  heart  would  make  confession  to  the  blameless  king.  I 
found  that  I  suspected  my  stepmother  of  seeing  through  me,  while 
I  credited  my  father  with  being  quite  in  the  dark.  I  cannot  trace 
this  to  anything  but  what  I  describe  to  my  Self  as  a  complete  ab- 
sence of  angelhood  in  the  character  of  Jemima.  As  for  Gracey,  I 
doubt  now  whether  she  was  not  much  more  alive  to  the  position 
than  I  thought  at  the  time;  but  decided  not  to  talk  to  me  about 
A.  Addison,  simply  from  tact.  It  is  much  more  probable  that  I  did 


500  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

not  understand  her  than  that  she  was  in  the  dark  about  me.  The 
chances  are  that  I  was  more  transparent  than  I  thought. 

Anyhow,  the  upshot  of  this  incident  of  my  enthralment  by  a 
conscientious  syren  who  had  headed  me  off  the  rocks — none  too 
soon — was  that  the  form  of  forgetting  all  about  her  was  gone 
through  successfully  by  me;  and  the  form,  perhaps,  of  pretending 
there  was  nothing  to  forget,  by  my  family. 

I  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  now  of  the  meaning  of  her  con- 
duct after  the  incident  in  the  colour  shop.  It  was  that  slight 
accent  I  had  laid  on  her  pronoun  that  provoked  it,  and  I  could  not 
see  my  way  to  blame  her,  or  to  devising  a  wiser  course  than  the 
one  she  took.  To  say  to  me,  on  so  slight  an  acquaintance,  "  Hands 
off.  young  man,  I  am  another's  "  would  have  been  taking  too  much 
for  granted.  On  the  other  hand,  to  breathe  the  fact  of  her  engage- 
ment to  any  one  of  my  womankind,  who  would  be  certain  to  com- 
municate it  to  me.  would  clinch  the  matter,  whether  sister,  sister- 
in-law,  or  stepmother.  She  may  have  hurried  the  disclosure  with 
a  little  nervous  precipitation,  but  what  of  that?  I  suppose  that 
my  manner  was  too  pointed,  my  impulse  too  transparent,  to  allow 
of  wavering  or  delay.  The  alarm  of  fire  was  too  palpable  to  justify 
the  lo~s  of  a  moment  in  despatching  the  engines. 

What  was  it  that  had  happened,  that  a  young  person  who  but  a 
few  days  since  was  no  more  than  a  new  acquaintance  should  have 
wormed  herself  into  the  very  vitals  of  my  soul  ?  I  knew  what 
began  it.  and  I  know  now.  It  began  with  that  hand,  which  its 
unconscious  owner  had  used  to  influence  hair  to  keep  out  of  eyes 
I  had  never  seen;  for  their  lids  and  lashes  were  at  that  moment 
mounting  jealous  guard  over  thorn,  as  they  followed  the  little 
spiral*  from  the  wood-block.  I  left  my  wood-block  with  the  guard- 
ian genius  of  the  Studio,  and  came  away  without  being  able  to 
report  upon  the  colour  of  those  eyes;  and  yet  that  hand,  without  as- 
sistance from  them,  had  power  to  entangle  my  thoughts,  and  in- 
sidiously suggest  the  desirability  of  another  sight  of  it.  If  the 
owner  of  the  hand  had  been  consciously  angling  for  my  capture 
— a  wild  improbability — that  would  have  been  the  moment  when 
the  fish  bit.  He  was  caught  by  a  hook  against  which  no  fish  ever 
struggles  in  earnest,  in  a  sport  indeed  where  every  fish  connives  at 
his  own  landing.  But  it  was  Fate  in  this  case — or  my  Guardian 
Angel;  what  do  I  know? — that  played  the  line;  not  A.  Addison 
herself,  to  whom  I  was  merely  a  person  on  business,  that  had 
come  to  speak  to  Miss  Procter. 

Howerer,  there  were  the  facts.  There  was  I,  who — as  Tennyson 
worded  it  in  the  poem  which  goes  further  to  describe  this  frame 


THE  NAKRATIVE  OF  EUSTACE  JOHN  501 

of  mind  than  anything  else  in  English,  or  out  of  it — who  in  this 
stormy  world  had  found  a  pearl,  a  counter-charm  to  Space  and 
hollow  sky;  who  did  not  accept  my  madness  at  all,  but  resented  it, 
and  had  much  ado  to  conceal  it.  For  was  not  the  pearl,  even  by  her 
own  will  or  consent,  to  pass  into  the  treasury  of  an  interloper,  an 
outsider,  of  whom  I  had  no  knowledge  at  all;  and  about  whom  I 
had  no  convictions,  apart  from  the  general  one  that  Man  has 
about  his  successful  rival,  that  he  could  not  be  anything  but  an 
Outrageous  Snob?  But  I  did,  I  believe,  succeed  in  keeping  the 
turmoil  of  my  emotions  to  myself. 

It  was  rather  ridiculous,  but  it  was  true,  that  I  was  helped  in 
this,  in  the  principal  quarter  in  which  concealment  was  difficult — 
videlicet  my  sister — by  the  memory  of  my  absurd  boyish  passion 
for  the  National  Gallery  beauty.  My  self-respect  shrank  from 
the  publication  of  a  second  unrequited  attachment.  Anyhow,  I  did 
make  a  very  successful  concealment.  I  am  sure  of  it.  At  least,  I 
am  confident  that  though  Gracey  may  have  detected  my  love-fever, 
she  perceived  that  I  believed  her  unconscious  of  it.  All  the  work- 
ing conditions  of  Oblivion  were  complied  with. 

I  think  also  that  I  was  indebted  to  the  ballad  of  the  Highway- 
man and  the  Forger  as  a  shield  against  detection  of  my  state  of 
mind  at  this  date.  I  made  the  most  of  misgivings  I  felt — and  I  did 
feel  some — that  I  should  be  involved  in  an  embarrassment  when 
the  caricatures  of  a  gentleman  I  was  ostensibly  o'n  the  best  of 
terms  with  made  their  appearance.  What  made  matters  worse  was 
that  their  unconscious  original  had  taken  a  strong  liking  to  the 
Artist,  of  course  without  a  suspicion  of  the  infamous  way  in  which 
he  was  shortly  to  be  dished  up  for  the  amusement  of  the  readers 
of  Momus.  It  was  to  some  extent  my  own  fault,  for  I  had  been 
weakly  trying  to  hedge  against  the  storm  of  indignation  which 
I  was  anticipating,  by  affecting  an  interest  I  did  not  feel  in  Mr. 
Silbermann's  utterances  on  Art.  It  would  have  been  much  better 
policy  to  quarrel  with  him  and  if  possible,  set  up  a  grievance- 
against  him. 

"  What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Gracey,  who  was  very  much  in- 
terested in  this  dilemma,  of  the  caricatures,  "  is — what  attitude  are 
you  going  to  take  up?  You  can't  pretend  to  be  surprised  at  his 
detecting  a  likeness.  Come  now !  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  I,  after  reflection.  "  It  may 
be  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  I  shall  talk  to  Bat  about  that.  It's 
his  lookout,  just  as  much  as  mine.  He's  implicated." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  bring  me  your  Bat  to  see?  I've  never 
seen  him,  you  know,  and  I  want  to.  He  must  be  amusing/' 


502  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  He  is — very  amusing.    But  he  hates  women." 
"  They  don't  appreciate   him,  I   suppose.     That's  men's   usual 
reason  for  hating  women.    But  won't  he  come,  because  of  that  ?  " 
"  I've  never  tried  it  on." 

"  Well — be  a  good  little  Jackey,  and  try  it  on.    To  please  me !  " 
I  made  no  promises,  but  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 
THE  STORY 

ADAH  ADDISON  had  been  engaged  to  be  married  for  the  past 
three  years  to  her  cousin  Bob  Bretherton.  They  had  been  play- 
mates ever  since  she  could  remember  and  when  he  entered  the 
merchant  service,  and  was  to  sail  on  a  long  cruise  to  the  West 
Indies,  the  evening  before  he  left  to  join  his  ship  Adah  had 
promised  that  she  would  marry  him  on  his  return.  It  was  very 
much  of  an  impromptu  affah*,  fostered  by  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  and  though  recognized  as  a  future  possibility  by  Adah's 
mother,  she  flatly  refused  to  allow  the  engagement  to  be  announced 
on  the  ground  that  both  Adah  and  Bob  were  far  too  young  and 
inexperienced  to  be  sure  of  their  own  minds,  and  that  they  must 
wait  till  the  latter  returned  home  again,  when  after  being  separated 
fof  a  certain  length  of  time  they  would  be  better  able  to  judge 
how  far  they  were  indispensable  to  each  other's  happiness  in  life. 

So  Adah  Addison  wore  no  engagement  ring  and  was  considered 
by  her  family  to  be  unattached,  but  by  herself  as  betrothed,  for 
had  she  not  given  Bob  her  sacred  promise  to  be  his  wife? 

Bob's  voyage  had  proved  an  extended  one.  He  had  been  de- 
tained first  at  one  port  and  then  at  another,  and  now  at  last  he 
had  written  to  say  that  a  good  business  opening  had  offered  itself 
in  Shanghai,  that,  consequently  he  proposed  to  quit  the  Merchant 
Service  and  settle  there.  He  feared  there  would  be  no  likelihood 
of  his  being  able  to  return  to  England  for  some  time  to  come,  so 
would  Adah  be  prepared  to  come  out  and  marry  him?  He  had 
added  that  he  should  quite  understand  it  were  she  to  hesitate 
about  taking  such  a  decided  step,  and  that  what  he  wished  was, 
that  she  should  consider  herself  absolutely  free  and  unfettered  by 
the  promise  she  had  made  him.  She  must  decftle,  and  everything 
should  be  as  she  wished.  And  Adah  had  decided,  she  had  written 
to  say  that  she  had  thought  it  all  well  over,  and  that  she  felt  that 
under  the  altered  circumstances  it  would  be  wiser  for  both  of  them 
to  give  it  up.  The  correspondence  that  followed  had  been  entirely 
amicable,  and  Adah  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  read  and 
re-read  Bob's  last  letter  acquiescing  in  all  her  views,  and  she 
knew  herself  to  be  free  again.  Yes,  they  had  both  come  to  see 

503 


504  OLD  HAN'S  YOUTH 

that  it  had  all  been  a  mistake  from  the  first.  There  was  no  harm 
done,  no  broken  hearts,  nothing  to  regret,  and  then  Adah  fell  to 
speculating  whether  that  nice  Mr.  Eustace  Pascoe  would  be  likely 
to  look  in  at  the  office  that  morning. 

But  Eustace  John  did  not  look  in  that  morning,  nor  for  many 
mornings  to  come.  Ever  since  his  stepmother  had  performed  her 
part  and  dextrously  let  out  the  fact  that  A.  Addison  was  engaged 
to  be  married,  the  disheartened  Eustace  John  had  kept  scrupu- 
lously away,  timing  his  visits  at  the  office  so  as  to  avoid  the  sight 
of  those  beautiful  hands  and  eyes. 

A  considerable  time  elapsed  and  still  no  Mr.  Eustace  Pascoe! 
It  then  occurred  to  A.  Addison,  she  being  the  soul  of  truth  and 
uprightness,  and  not,  mark  you,  actuated  by  any  other  motive 
whatsoever,  that  having  told  Mrs.  Pascoe  of  her  engagement  to  her 
cousin  she  was  now  in  duty  bound  t«  tell  her  that  it  was  all  at  an 
end. 

Accordingly,  one  day,  she  suggested  at  the  office  that  she  could 
as  easily  as  not  leave  those  blocks  for  Mr.  Pascoe  at  The  Retreat, 
she  was  actually  passing  the  door,  and  it  would  save  him  the 
trouble  of  calling  for  them. 

No  objection  being  raised  to  this  arrangement,  Adah  sallied 
forth,  armed  with  the  blocks  in  question,  hoping  she  might  be 
lucky  enough  to  find  Mrs.  Pascoe  at  home. 

Now  it  so  chanced  that  Helen  had  had  a  very  dull  afternoon. 
Gracey  had  been  out  since  lunch  and  no  visitors  had  called,  so 
that  when  the  servant  inquired  "  if  she  would  see  Miss  Addison," 
Helen  jumped  at  the  interruption  to  her  solitary  musings,  and  A. 
Addison  was  received  with  open  arms.  Tea  was  ordered  and 
Adah  found  no  difficulty  in  confiding  the  story  of  her  broken-off 
engagement  to  Mrs.  Pascoe.  In  fact  the  visit  was  in  every  way  a 
great  success. 

Not  so  the  blocks  however.  So  serious  were  the  corrections 
required  that  Adah  found  Eustace  John  actually  waiting  for 
her  outside  the  office  door  when  she  got  tliere  on  the  following1 
morning.  In  fact  those  blocks  required  so  much  alteration  that 
hardly  a  day  passed  without  a  long  consultation  with  A.  Addison 
on  the  subject,  and  in  addition  to  that,  other  pressing  work  of 
Mr.  Eustace  Pascoe's  caused  him  constantly  to  be  passing  her 
door  of  the  office  just  as  Adah  was  leaving  off  work,  so  that  he 
could  not  help  but  see  her  home. 

In  the  course  of  these  walks  it  transpired  that  Adah  really  was 
the  Adaropposito  of  the  old  Mecklenburg  Square  days.  Her  real 


THE  STORY  505 

name  was  Fraser,  Atklison  being  her  mother's  maiden  name.  Her 
father,  it  seemed  had  been  mixed  up  in  a  most  unfortunate  money 
transaction,  according  to  his  daughter,  he  had  been  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  but  in  consequence  of  the  whole  dreadful 
liusiin-ss,  he  had  had  to  leave  England  and  go  to  America  to  start 
life  afresh  under  an  assumed  name.  It  had  not  been  possible 
for  her  and  her  mother  to  accompany  him,  though  her  mother  had 
alvraj's  cherished  the  idea  that  at  some  future  time  they  might  be 
able  to  go  out  and  join  him.  All  -this  had  taken  place  when 
Adah  was  quite  a  little  girl,  and  it  was  years  since  she  had  heard 
anything  of  her  father.  She  did  not  now  know  where  he  was, 
nor  in  fact  if  he  were  still  living.  Her  old  grandfather  Mr.  Ward- 
roper  would  never  speak  of  him.  and  now  that  her  mother  was  dead 
all  possible  link  with  him  severed. 

And  so  the  stream  of  Eustace  John's  courtship  flowed  gently 
on,  peaceful  and  uninterrupted.  Meanwhile  what  of  the  other 
inmates  of  The  Retreat?  What  of  good  or  of  ill  did  the  passing 
days  bring  to  them  ? 

Mr.  Pascoe  had  fondly  imagined  that  when  leisure  came  it 
never  could  be  irksome  to  him.  There  were  so  many  untapped 
sources  of  interest,  so  many  things  he  had  always  longed  to  do. 
; .  r  ni'ver  had  the  time  at  his  disposal  to  do  them  in.  But  like 
IMMIV  another,  now  that  leisure  had  come  and  he  was  no  longer 
in  harness,  he  felt  quite  stranded,  and  found  great  difficulty  in 
settling  down  to  any  fixed  employment.  Also,  there  could  no 
longer  be  any  shadow  of  doubt  now  about  the  reality  of  the  head 
trouble;  the  fear  of  which  had  made  him  relinquish  his  post  at 
Somerset  House.  It  was  certainly  increasing!  He  found  it 
hard  to  concentrate  his  thoughts,  and  his  memory  constantly 
failed  him  to  a  very  painful  degree,  and  he  dreaded  becoming  :!;<• 
burden  to  others  that  he  already  was  to  himself.  As  for  Helen 
with  her  constant  thirst  for  excitement,  and  her  craving  for 
Society,  she  found  the  trend  things  were  taking  most 
trying. 

It  was  clearly  undesirable  to  encourage  many  people  to  come 
to  the  house.  The  strain  of  conversing  with  visitors  was  a  pain- 
ful effort  to  her  husband,  and  moreover  distinctly  injurious  to 
him — so  the  doctor  had  said ;  and  the  constant  presence  of  Jackey 
and  Gracey  in  the  house,  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  disregard 
the  medical  verdict  in  this  respect,  however  much,  if  left  to  her- 
self, she  might  have  been  tempted  to  do  so.  There  was  no  way  but 
to  submit,  and  in  her  overpowering  desire  to  escape  from  herself 
she  sought  relief  in  incessant  church-going;  so  much  so  that  her 


506  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

stepson  and  daughter  christened  her  the  "  P.  L.  P.,"  which  is 
being  interpreted  the  Pious  Lay  Person. 

Since  that  last  row  royal  with  Roberta,  Helen  had  seen  little 
or  nothing  of  the  Graypers.  Shortly  after  that  stormy  encounter 
with  her  stepmother,  Roberta  and  her  husband  had  started  for  the 
continent,  the  ostensible  reason  being  that  Mr.  Grayper,  who  had 
retired  from  active  work  at  the  brewery,  had  undertaken  some 
literary  correspondence  that  made  touring  in  foreign  parts  a  neces- 
sity, and  Roberta  who  loved  travelling,  was  delighted  at  the 
arrangement. 

They  had  been  away  a  long  time,  wandering  about  in  France, 
Italy,  and  Spain,  and  now  at  last  they  were  setting  their  faces 
homewards,  and  Roberta  had  written  from  Paris  to  say  that  they 
should  be  back  in  less  than  a  week  from  the  date  of  her  letter, 
nr.d  would  both  turn  up  the  following  Sunday  to  lunch  at  The 
Retreat. 

Helen's  first  impulse  had  been  on  reading  the  letter,  to  dis- 
cover that  she  was  lunching  out  on  that  day,  but  on  second 
thought  she  felt  ^that  she  had  much  better  be  there,  ready  to 
defend  herself  if  necessary.  Besides,  it  was  all  such  a  long  while 
ago  now.  By  this  time  Roberta  might  be  in  a  very  different 
frame  of  mind,  and  quite  ready  to  be  friends,  in  fact  she  might 
have  forgotten  the  whole  thing!  No,  better  kill  the  fatted  calf! 
Let  bygones  be  bygones  and  receive  her  stepdaughter  with  open 
arms.  If  only  Roberta  would ! ! ! 

But  lunch  time  came  and  went,  that  Sunday  and  no  Graypers 
appeared.  Only  a  short  note  sent  later  in  the  day  from  Roberta's 
husband  to  say  that  she  was  ill  and  he  had  not  liked  to  leave  her 
and  come  by  himself.  He  would  write  again  when  he  could  tell 
them  more,  but  he  feared  she  might  be  sickening  for  some  illness, 
as  she  had  been  ailing  before  they  left  Paris.  Another  letter 
arrived  the  following  morning  to  say  that  Roberta  was  no  better 
and  that  the  doctor  now  thought  she  might  be  sickening  for  typhoid 
fever,  but  he  could  not  be  quite  certain  for  a  day  or  two.  Mean- 
while Mr.  Grayper  was  very  anxious  about  her  or  he  would  have 
turned  up  in  person  at  The  Retreat  to  report  progress. 

Gracey  promptly  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  see  for 
herself  what  was  wrong.  "  She  was  not  to  see  the  patient  if  any- 
thing infectious  was  feared,"  so  said  Helen;  and  Gracey  promised 
not  to,  and  took  her  departure. 

That  evening  Gracey  returned  with  the  news  that  it  was  typhoid; 
that  a  nurse  had  been  engaged,  but  that  Bert  had  begged  that 
Varnish  might  come  and  be  with  her.  Gracey  had  offered  to  stop 


THE  STORY  507 

but  was  not  considered  experienced  enough  to  be  of  any  real  use. 

"  Of  course  Varnish  can  go,  better  go  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Pascoe. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Nathaniel,"  and  Helen  stopped  him  as  he  was 
leaving  the  room  to  interview  Varnish  on  the  subject.  "  Just 
remember  Varnish  is  of  the  greatest  use  in  the  house.  You  would 
not  be  nearly  so  comfortable  if  she  went." 

"  As  if  that  mattered  in  the  very  least,"  answered  Mr.  Pascoe, 
impatiently. 

"Yes,  but  she  has  no  real  knowledge  of  nursing,  at  all  events 
not  of  fever  cases,  and  I  have.  Varnish  and  Gracey  can  look 
after  you  and  the  house,  and  I  will  go  and  nurse  Roberta.  Indeed. 
I  am  right.  That  is  the  best  arrangement,  I  am  confident  of  it." 
And  Helen  was  so  persistent  that  Mr.  Pascoe  gave  way  and  did 
not  attempt  to  argue  the  point.  In  fact  it  pleased  him  that  his 
wife  should  be  so  anxious  to  go  herself. 

Helen  decided  she  had  better  start  at  once.  Roberta  might 
easily  become  delirious,  in  fact  delirium  was  bound  to  occur  as 
the  fever  ran  its  course,  and  then  there  was  no  knowing  what  Bert 
might  not  say.  Yes,  it  was  certainly  far  safer  that  she  should  be 
there!  She  could  get  rid  of  the  nurse  if  necessary,  and  watch 
her  herself  till  the  danger  was  past ;  and  Helen  gave  the  order  for 
the  brougham  to  come  round  as  soon  as  possible.  Then  she  went 
upstairs  to  get  ready.  In  less  than  half-an-hour  she  had  packed 
all  she  would  be  likely  to  need  into  her  handbag,  and  calling  a 
hurried  farewell  to  Mr.  Pascoe,  ran  downstairs.  She  had  heard 
the  scrunch  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  in  front  of  the  house  and  knew 
that  the  carriage  must  be  there. 

As  she  reached  the  hall  she  saw  that  the  front  door  stood  open, 
and  to  her  amazement  a  figure  passed  out  in  front  of  her,  entered 
the  carriage  and  before  she  could  reach  it  slammed  the  door  in  her 
face. 

"  Varnish,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  "  exclaimed  Helen,  for  it 
was  Varnish's  face  that  peered  out  at  her  from  the  inside  of  the 
brougham.  "You  are  not  going!  It  is  I  who  am  going  to  nurse 
Mrs.  Grayper,  you  are  to  stop  and  look  after  things  here." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  Miss  Roberta  to  your  care,  Miss  Gracey  said 
it  was  me  she  asked  for,"  then  looking  straight  into  Helen's 
startled  face,  Varnish  added  with  grim  significance,  "  One  in  a 
family  is  enough!  Had  you  not  better  tell  Tom  to  start,  M'am, 
or  are  you  coming  too  ? " 

"  You  can  drive  on,"  said  Helen  to  the  coachman,  and  she  turned 
back  into  the  house.  But  her  knees  were  shaking  under  her. 


CHAPTEE  XLV 
THE  STORY 

ABOUT  ten  days  later  the  family  at  The  Retreat  were  thrown 
into  a  great  state  of  anxiety  about  Roberta.  The  reports  of  the 
patient's  condition  grew  increasingly  alarming,  and  finally  cul- 
minated in  a  telegram  delivered  late  one  evening  urging  them  to 
come  at  once  as  she  was  hardly  expected  to  live  through  the  night. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pascoe,  accompanied  by  Gracey  started  immedi- 
ately for  the  Graypers'  House  at  Kingston.  Eustace  John  was 
expected  in  shortly  and  instructions  WOTS  left  for  him  to  follow 
on  at  once. 

Since  Roberta's  illness  Helen  had  avoided,  first  on  one  pretext 
and  then  on  another,  going  to  the  house.  She  had  always  sent 
to  inquire  but  had  never  been  herself.  Now  her  going  was  un- 
avoidable, and  she  thought  with  a  sickening  terror  of  a  possible 
fresh  encounter  with  Varnish. 

The  drive  from  Chelsea  to  Kingston  is  a  long  one,  and  though 
the  horse  was-  urged  on  to  his  quickest  pace  it  was  a  good  hour 
before  they  reached  their  destination. 

Haggard  and  white,  Anderson  Grayper  met  them  at  the  door. 
They  were  too  late  he  said,  and  his  voice  broke.  She  had  passed 
away  quite  peacefully  very  shortly  after  he  had  sent  off  the  tele- 
gram. No  one  had  anticipated  such  a  very  rapid  sinking.  He  had 
sent  for  them  directly  the  doctor  had  told  him  he  had  better  do  so. 
She  was  quite  unconscious  at  the  end  and  would  not  have  known 
them  even  had  they  been  in  time.  It  was  all  over  now!  They 
would  like  to  go  upstairs  presently.  He  would  go  and  see  if  they 
might  come,  and  he  showed  them  into  the  dining-room  and  left 
them. 

Mr.  Paacoe  sank  into  the  nearest  chair  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands  while  poor  Graeey  broke  down  and  sobbed  quietly  to 
herself  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

And  Helen,  what  of  her?  Her  face  was  white  and  set,  as  she 
rested  her  elbows  on  the  dining-room  table  and  shaded  her  eyes 
with  her  hands  to  hide — no  not  to  hide  her  tears — but  to  hide 
the  gleam  of  triumph  that  shone  in  those  dark  eyes  of  hers.  Death 
had  been  her  friend,  and  those  lips  on  which  had  hovered  that 
fell  accusation,  would  never  again  threaten  the  foundations  of 

508 


THE  STORY  509 

her  life.  She  felt  safe  now!  True,  there  wag  still  Varnish  to  be 
reckoned  with,  considering  her  strange  behaviour  the  other  day, 
but  Varnish,  without  Roberta  to  back  her  was  not  so  much  to  be 
feared.  Besides,  something  might  turn  up,  some  way  of  getting 
her  pensioned  off  away  from  The  Retreat,  and  Helen's  thoughts 
indulged  in  the  prospect  of  a  future  freed  from  the  dread,  not 
of  conviction,  for  that  was  not  possible,  but  freed  from  those 
vague  hints  that  struck  terror  to  her  guilty  soul. 

Silence  pervaded  the  room,  no  one  uttered  a  word  and  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  seemed  to  Helen's  overwrought 
fancy  to  grow  louder  and  louder.  And  as  it  ticked  it  appeared  to 
her  to  say: — "Your  time  will  come!  .  .  .  Your  time  will  come! 
.  .  .  Your  time  will  come  ...  !  "  Oh !  would  nothing  stop  the 
ticking  of  that  dreadful  clock!  And  Helen  felt  as  if  she  must 
scream  out  loud. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  nurse  came  in. 

"  They  might  come  upstairs  now,  all  was  ready,"  she  eaid. 
Mr.  Pascoe  followed  by  Gracey  left  the  room,  Helen  had  motioned 
to  them  to  go  first.  She  wanted  to  ask  the  nurse  a  few  questions, 
she  explained,  and  would  come  up  presently. 

"  Y.OU  wish  to  speak  to  me,"  said  the  n'urse,  seating  herself  on  a 
chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  to  Mrs.  Pascoe.  She  looked 
very  tired  but  otherwise  unemotional.  Her  collar  was  white  and 
rigid,  and  her  starched  apron  rustled  and  crackled  as  she  sat  down. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me,"  she  repeated,  sleepily. 

"  Oh,  only,"  said  Helen,  nervously.  "  Oh,  only  just,  I  wanted 
to  know  if  dear  Mrs.  Grayper  suffered  much?" 

"  At  the  end  you  mean  ?  Oh  no,  she  went  comatose  and  just 
slept  away.  They  do  you  know." 

"  But  I  mean  before  that,  was  she  ...  I  mean — was  she  very 
delirious?" 

''Delirious?  Of  course  she  was!  They  always  are  you  know, 
with  high  fever  like  that." 

"  But  .  .  .  but -"  inquired  Helen,  "was  she  very  delirious? 

You  know  sometimes  one  can  judge  of  the  degree  of  suffering  that 
way.  Did  she  rave  much  ?  " 

u  Oh  dear,  yes,"  answered  the  nurse.  "  raved  at  intervals  all  the 
night.  That's  what  they  do  when  the  fever  runs  up." 

"  Was  it  you  who  were  with  her  when  she  raved  so  violently  ? 
Of  course  you  would  know  so  much  better  what  to  do  than  her 
old  nurse  Varnish." 

"  Mrs.  Varnish?  Oh,  she  was  there  at  times,  but  of  course  all 
the  work  was  on  my  shoulders,  couldn't  be  off  it !  " 


510  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

"  And  what  was  done  ? "    ...    asked  Helen. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  the  nurse,  sharply.  "  All  the  proper 
things  were  done!  The  doctor's  orders  were  carried  out  to  the 
letter.  I  can  answer  for  that " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  of  course  that  would  be  the  case !  "  replied  Helen, 
soothingly.  "  I  have  every  confidence  that  all  was  done  that  could 
be  done.  What  I  meant  was  .  .  .  What  I  really  wanted  to  ask 
you!  .  .  .  was  if  the  raving  was  very  bad  in  her  case?  .  .  . 
If  it  implied  great  mental  suffering?" 

"  Oh,  it's  just  the  fever  does  it,"  and  the  nurse  yawned.  "  They 
mostly  talk  rubbish  and  kick  and  toss  about  when  the  temperature 
is  104  to  105,  then  if  it  runs  up  it  kills  them." 

"But  do  they  all  talk  the  same  rubbish?"  persisted  Helen. 

"  Why,  good  gracious,  no !  "  and  the  nurse  gazed  at  Helen  in 
astonishment.  Here  was  a  simpleton  and  no  mistake ! ! 

"  You  don't  remember  of  course,"  continued  Helen,  "  what  dear 
Mrs.  Grayper  raved  about  I  suppose?  Not  that  it  really  matters 
now  that  she  is  at  rest.  Still,  details  about  any  one  one  loved  are 
interesting !  Always  must  be !  " 

"  Well,  as  far  as  I  can  call  to  mind  .  .  .  but  you  see  I  nurse 
so  many,  and  I  never  really  take  much  count  of  anything,  they 
say  when  the  temperature  is  up,  well,  I  had  to  hold  her  down  so 
hard,  she  struggled  and  fought  to  get  up !  Said  there  was  a  figure 
in  white  holding  out  its  arms  to  her  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  that 
she  must  go  to  her." 

"  Anything  more  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  Oh,  lots  of  wild  stuff.  Shouted  murder  and  something  about 
some  one  having  been  poisoned!  Then  she  shouted  Jemima!  I 
think  that  was  the  name!  or  Ellen  was  it?  I  really  did  not  pay 
much  attention.  It  was  such  a  job  to  hold  her!' 

"And  were  you  alone  with  her  at  the  time?"  inquired  Helen, 
with  as  sympathetic  a  tone  of  voice  as  she  could  muster. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  nurse,  "  Mrs.  Varnish  had  gone  to  bed,  and  I 
thought  Mrs.  Grayper  was  settling  down  quiet  for  the  night,  but 
the  fever  ran  up  suddenly.  I  could  not  even  leave  hold  of  her 
to  get  at  the  bell  to  ring  for  some  one  to  come  and  help  me  with 
her!  Not  that  that  mattered  much.  You  see  we  are  accustomed 
to  this  sort  of  thing,  we  nurses!" 

"And  was  that  the  worst  night  you  had  with  her?  I  mean 
was  she  ever  so  delirious  again?" 

"  Oh,  I  think  that  night  was  about  the  top  of  it.  After  that  she 
became  comatose,  and  never  rallied ! ' 

"  Poor  darling,"  said  Helen,  pensively.    "  She  always  loved  thea- 


THE  STORY  511 

tricals."    But  Helen's  face  was  ashy  white     "  And  h*i 
nurse  Varnish/'  she  continued.    «  How  hafshe  tatn  H    if?"  ** 

"        I1;1!!       °h>  She  Se€mS  Very  much  ™*  "P>  Poor  old 
,    replied  the  nurse.    «  I  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed  and  try 


THE  STORY 

POOR  Mr.  Pascoe  was  very  much  upset  by  the  death  of  his 
daughter,  and  Gracey  always  delicate  seemed  to  be  more  ailing 
than  usual,  so  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  thinking  change  of  air  and 
scene  advisable,  decided  to  shut  up  The  Retreat  and  take  a  house  , 
in  the  country  for  a  few  months,  leaving  Eustace  John  to  shift 
for  himself  in  London;  this  arrangement  enabled  Helen  to  carry 
out  her  plan  of  getting  rid  of  Varnish.  She  skilfully  manipulated 
that  Varnish  should  go  north  and  assist  Ellen  with  the  manage- 
ment of  her  ever-increasing  family  during  their  absence  from 
town,  rightly  foreseeing  that  once  there,  Ellen  would  not  readily 
relinquish  her  valuable  services  in  the  nursery,  and  that  the 
chances  were  that  Varnish  would  probably  remain  on  permanently, 
which  eventually  proved  to  be  the  case,  thus  relieving  Helen  of  the 
dread  of  her  constant  presence  in  the  house. 

In  the  Autumn  they  all  returned  to  town  for  Eustace  John's 
marriage  with  Adaropposite  deciding,  however,  to  spend  the  Winter 
at  Bournemouth,  so  that  life  at  The  Retreat  did  not  resume  its 
normal  course  till  the  following  Spring.  Meanwhile,  an  attractive 
house  in  Chelsea  overlooking  the  river,  with  a  large  studio  at- 
tached to  it,  had  been  secured  by  the  young  couple,  and  Eustace 
John  and  Adah  had  settled  down  to  a  happy  domestic  life.  The 
former  had  plenty  of  work  to  do,  the  only  drawback  being  that 
the  nature  of  his  employment  involving  weekly  or  sometimes 
daily  publication,  often  kept  him  at  his  drawing  half  through  the 
night  and  was  a  considerable  strain  on  his  powers,  but  there  was 
no  help  for  it;  he  had  to  bow  to  the  inevitable  and  do  the  best  he 
could  with  his  art  under  such  unfavourable  circumstances. 

Eight  years  have  passed,  prosperous  happy  years  for  Eustace 
John,  marked  only  by  the  birth  of  a  baby  daughter  and  the  longed- 
for  release  of  poor  old  Mr.  Wardroper,  who,  deaf  and  totally 
blind,  expired  at  the  age  of  ninety-si's. 

Meanwhile  what  of  The  Retreat;  what  of  good  or  of  ill  had  those 
eight  years  brought  to  its  inmates? 

A  sort  of  greyness  seemed  to  have  covered  them  in,  Helen's  rest- 

512 


THE  STOKY  513 

less  spirit  found  less  and  less  in  their  daily  life  to  satisfy  her 
craving  for  excitement.  Her  nerves  were  bad,  though  all  fear  of 
detection  had  long  since  vanished  from  her  mind,  but  her  self- 
tormenting  ego  destroyed  the  days  that  passed.  As  for  Mr.  Pascoe 
his  memory  failed  him  more  and  more  and  his  condition  was  a 
source  of  constant  anxiety  and  incessant  watchfulness  to  his  wife 
and  daughter.  He  could  not  be  trusted  out  alone  as  the  chances' 
were  that  he  would  forget  where  he  lived  and  not  find  his  way 
home.  Not  infrequntly  he  forgot  his  own  name,  yet  he  resented 
being  looked  after,  so  that  the  task  of  guarding  him  from  mis- 
adventure was  not  always  an  easy  one.  And  Gracey !  poor  little 
Gracey  with  her  limp  and  the  wound  in  her  heart  that  had  never 
healed !  Still  young  the  heavy  mantle  of  middle  age  seemed  to 
wrap  her  round  and  she  accepted  the  dulness  of  her  life  without 
a  murmur  or  complaint  but  without  any  striving  for  upward 
growth!  No  talents  were  hers,  nothing  to  stimulate  the  brain,  and 
open  out  the  alluring  vistas  of  the  intellectual  world.  In  another 
walk  of  life  where  her  daily  bread  would  have  depended  on 
personal  exertion  on  her  part,  she  would  have  been  far  better 
off;  as  it  was  she  lived  in  a  cage  built  round  her  by  circumstance 
and  had  neither  the  power  nor  the  inclination  to  break  open  the 
door  and  set  herself  free.  Love  had  come  to  her,  a  great  strong 
love  in  the  first  bright  freshness  of  early  youth,  but  Cooky's 
mother  with  her  narrow  creed  and  inordinate  love  of  power  had 
barred  the  way,  and  the  dignified  Jewish  lady  with  the  thick  lips 
and  the  ropes  of  pearls,  who  drove  daily  round  the  park  in  her 
well  set  up  equipage,  was  blind  to  the  fact  that  she  had  herself 
dug  her  own  son's  grave  in  far-away  India,  and  blighted  the  life  of 
the  girl,  who  but  for  her  would  have  been  his  wife. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  latter  half 
of  May,  Eustace  John  looked  in  at  The  Retreat.  Ada,  he  said,  was 
coming  round  later  in  time  for  tea,  but  he  wanted  to  have  a  chat 
with  Gracey  first.  "  Had  she  by  any  chance  any  sort  of  an  old 
dress  made  with  a  sack;  he  wanted  some  kind  of  seventeenth  cen- 
tury get  up  for  a  drawing  he  had  on  hand."  Gracey  seemed  doubt- 
ful, and  Helen  who  was  reading  by  the  window  looked  up  from 
her  book  and  suggested  that  perhaps  there  might  be  something  of 
the  sort  in  those  old  boxes  up  in  the  loft  over  the  stables,  that  came 
from  Mecklenburg  Square. 

"  I  thought  they  only  contained  jars  full  of  the  old  admiral's 
experiments  in  explosives,"  paid  Eustace  John. 

"  Oh,  but  there  was  a  lot  of  all  sorts  of  rubbish  in  them  as 


514  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

well,"  replied  Helen.  "  You  might  find  something  that  would  be 
of  use,  anyhow  there  can  be  no  harm  in  looking."  And  she  went 
back  to  her  book. 

"  I  say,  Gracey,  suppose  you  come  along  and  help  me  to  turn  out 
those  boxes." 

But  Gracey  demurred  at  this,  she  had  on  her  Sunday  clothes. 
**  Would  it  do  another  day  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Jackey,  "  I  am  in  a  bit  of  a  fix  for  something  to 
help  me  out  with  drawing,  and  it  has  to  be  sent  in  tomorrow." 

"  Well  then,"  conceded  Gracey,  "  I  don't  mind  holding  the  candle 
for  you  to  see  by,  but  I  shall  keep  a  long  way  off,  and  you  must 
do  the  hunting." 

A  wooden  staircase  led  up  to  the  loft  which  had  no  windows 
in  it,  so  that  in  order  to  throw  light  on  the  boxes,  Gracey  had 
to  stand  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  hold  the  candle  high  up  above 
her  head. 

Eustace  John  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  rolled  up  his  shirt 
sleeves  in  order  to  face  the  accumulated  dust  of  years.  "  It  can't 
be  so  dirty  inside  the  boxes  as  it  is  out,  that's  one  comfort,"  he 
remarked  as  he  proceeded  to  undo  the  cord  and  lift  the  lid  of  the 
box  nearest  to  him.  It  was,  as  he  anticipated,  packed  with  jars 
containing  some  sort  of  chemical  substance. 

"  If  there  are  any  old  clothes,"  said  Gracey,  "  they  would  be 
under  the  jars,  the  man  Freeman  did  say  there  were  a  lot  of  old 
rags,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  right  at  the  bottom  of  the  boxes 
put  there  to  keep  the  jars  from  shifting." 

"  Well,  let's  see  what  we  can  find,"  and  Eustace  John  began 
carefully  lifting  out  the  jars  one  by  one  and  placing  them  on 
the  floor  of  the  loft.  Then  sure  enough  here  was  an  old  coat  moth 
eaten  and  tattered,  then  another,  and  glory  be,  something  of  a 
woman's  torn  and  faded  silken  attire. 

"  Hooray,"  cried  Eustace  John.  "  Here  we  are  at  last,  I  must 
just  shake  it  out  though,  it's  so  crumpled  I  can't  make  out  if  it  is 
a  cloak  or  a  skirt."  And  taking  the  garment  in  both  hands  he  stood 
up  and  gave  it  a  vigorous  shaking  regardless  of  the  jars  at  his 
feet;  a  corner  of  the  drapery  caught  on  one  of  them  knocking  it 
down,  and  it  broke  as  it  rolled  on  the  floor  letting  out  a  stream 
of  dark  brown  liquid  with  a  curious  odour. 

"  Oh,  Jackey  don't,  you  are  smothering  me  with  dust,"  yelled 
Gracey,  and  the  lighted  candle  fell  from  her  hand.  A  loud  report 
followed,  and  by  the  time  the  alarmed  inmates  of  The  Retreat 
arrived  on  the  scene  the  smoke  that  had  accompanied  the  explo- 
sion had  escaped  by  a  big  hole  blown  through  the  roof,  Gracey  had 


THE  STOKY  515 

been  flung  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  fortunately  not  much  the 
worse  for  her  fall,  but  Eustace  John  lay  insensible  on  the  floor  of 
the  loft.  Medical  aid  was  promptly  summoned  and  he  was  carried 
into  the  house,  restoratives  were  applied  and  after  some  consider- 
able time  he  recovered  consciousness.  He  was  suffering  mostly 
from  shock  the  doctor  said,  and  his  hands  and  head  were  some- 
what severely  injured.  He  would  get  all  right  in  time,  but  he 
feared  it  might  be  rather  a  long  job.  And  so  there  was  an  end 
JLO  Eustace  John's  efforts  in  the  fine  arts  for  many  weeks  to 
come.  And  thus  it  came  about  that  those  fateful  boxes  again 
asserted  their  baneful  influence  on  the  family  that  harboured  them, 
for  when  Eustace  John  ultimately  recovered,  it  was  to  find  that, 
not  only  had  all  his  regular  work  for  periodicals  passed  into  other 
hands,  but  that  though  his  sight  was  in  no  way  injured,  his  eyes 
were  weak  and  got  very  easily  tired,  so  that  it  was  most  unadvisable 
for  him  to  undertake  any  sort  of  drawing  by  artificial  light. 
Indeed,  the  practice  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  any  form  was  undesirable. 
Therefore,  when  an  opening  offered  itself  for  land  surveying  in 
Australia,  he  jumped  at  it,  rather  welcoming  the  idea  of  a  new 
life  in  a  new  country,  and  flattering  himself  that  there  would  be 
frequent  opportunities  of  returning  to  England,  and  that  he  had 
no  need  to  fear  losing  touch  with  those  he  left  behind  him. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  the  Eustace  Pascoes  wound  up 
their  affairs  in  London,  and  said  good-bye  to  their  friends  and 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  accompanied  by  Gracey  went  down  to 
Southampton  to  see  them  off.  And  that  as  the  big  steamer  ma- 
jestically moved  away  to  the  mournful  strains  of  the  band  playing 
its  adieus  to  England  from  the  upper  deck,  Eustace  John  with  his 
wife  and  child  stood  by  the  gangway  waving  their  handkerchiefs  in 
farewell  to  the  small  sad  tender  that  was  taking  his  father,  step- 
mother, and  Gracey  back  to  shore,  and  away  out  of  their  lives, 
though  they  little  thought  it,  for  ever. 

And  here  we  too  must  bid  farewell  to  Eustace  John  for  the 
present,  for  this  story  is  the  story  of  the  old  man's  youth  and 
the  young  man's  old  age.  It  is  not  concerned  with  his  years  of 
strong  manhood  and  prosperous  middle  life.  When  we  meet  him 
again  his  tale  will  have  been  all  but  told,  and  the  sands  of  his 
glass  all  but  run  out. 

The  great,  floating  hotel  that  is  bearing  him  and  his  family  to 
the  other  side  of  the  globe  is  already  a  mere  speck  on  the  horizon, 
and  now  it  has  passed  out  of  our  sight. 


NOT  long  after  the  departure  of  Eustace  John  and  his  family 
for  the  Antipodes,  Helen  decided  to  take  the  plunge  and  join  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church.  The  prospect  it  held  out  to  her  of  con- 
fession followed  by  absolution  was  alluring.  She  would  try  it 
and  see  what  it  would  do  for  her.  Could  she  but  drink  of  the 
waters  of  Lethe  and  forget !  Then  she  might  rest  and  enjoy  the 
day  that  passes.  She  persuaded  Gracey  to  follow  suit,  and  the 
two  new  converts  spent  much  of  their  time  at  the  oratory  attend- 
ing all  the  services  there  were  to  attend,  and  faithfully  obeying 
every  injunction  to  godliness  that  their  newly  installed  guides 
and  instructors  prescribed  for  them. 

And  the  confessional,  what  of  that? 

Yes,  Helen  confessed  her  sins,  confessed  them  regularly,  but 
of  that  foul  murder  committed  years  ago,  she  said  never  a  word. 
Again  and  again  she  tried  to  make  up  her  mind  to  speak,  confess 
her  crime  and  snatch  the  promised  pardon.  But  the  words  would 
not  come. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  eay,  my  daughter,"  asked  the  con- 
fessor, from  behind  the  screen  of  the  confessional  one  day. 

"  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,"  ejaculated  Helen,  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  betrayed  her. 

And  again,  and  yet  again  she  left  the  church  thankful  that 
she  had  not  yielded  to  the  impulse  to  lift  that  dark  burden  from 
her  mind,  and  tell  the  story  of  her  crime. 

After  all  was  the  confessional  really  as  sacred  as  they  said? 
Was  not  her  secret  far,  far  safer  in  her  own  keeping?  Besides, 
was  she  heartwhole  in  her  faith?  Did  she  really  believe  in  the 
power  of  Holy  Church,  to  unlock  the  gates  of  Heaven  and  let  the 
sinner  pass?  No,  better  waitl  Some  day  nearer  her  end  perhaps, 
when  she  knew  she  was  actually  dying!  Then  would  be  the  time 
for  confession,  not  now,  when  who  knows?  The  priest  might, 
probably  would,  identify  her.  After  all,  he  was  but  a  human  being ! 
And  could  any  human  being  be  trusted  ?  In  time  her  faith  might 
grow  stronger,  «he  might  come  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  the 
absolution  of  sins,  and  accept  the  claims  of  the  Church,  to  the 
possession  of  binding  powers  over  Heaven  and  Hell. 

516 


THE  STORY  517 

Yes,  it  was  best  to  be  cautious!  Best  to  wait!  And  meanwhile 
she  would  do  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  encourage  the  growth 
of  that  faith  she  longed  for,  and  then  when  faith  grew  strong, 
then  would  be  the  time  to  confess.  It  would  be  easy  enough,  could 
she  only  believe,  but  till  then  let  the  dark  secret  be  hers  and  hers 
alone. 

And  Helen  never  told  the  foul  story  of  her  guilt. 

Life  went  on  its  uneventful  course  at  The  Retreat  and  the  years 
passed.  Poor  Gracey  flagged  and  grew  more  and  more  ailing.  It 
was  tuberculosis,  the  doctor  said,  and  he  recommended  Bourne- 
mouth. Helen  would  have  preferred  to  try  the  Riviera,  but  Mr. 
Pascoe's  health  made  a  long  journey,  and  residence  abroad  undej 
sirable.  Eustace  John  wrote  eloquently  about  the  healing  virtues 
of  a  long  sea  voyage,  and  the  advantage  of  the  Australian  climate. 
But  before  his  letter  reached  England  all  that  remained  of  poor 
little  Gracey  lay  buried  under  the  trees  in  the  Bournemouth 
churchyard,  and  her  earthly  career  was  ended. 

Mr.  Pascoe  lived  on  for  some  years  yet.  His  spirit  imprisoned 
in  a  half-dead  shell,  found  no  outward  expression.  He  did  not 
suffer,  so  the  doctor  assured  his  wife,  but  who  shall  say  when  the 
bodily  mechanism  is  paralyzed  what  torture  the  caged  spirit  may 
not  be  enduring. 

At  last  the  release  came  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  and  Helen 
found  herself  free!  She  had  nursed  her  husband  patiently  and 
faithfully  through  these  long  dreary  years;  occasional  visits  from 
Ellen  and  her  children  enlivened  the  dulness  of  life  at  The  Re- 
treat, but  these  visits  were  few  and  far  between,  and  since  Gracey's 
death  Helen  had  led  a  very  lonely  life.  One  by  one  friends  and 
acquaintances  had  dropped  off  or  died.  Eustace  John's  Work  had 
never  allowed  of  his  leaving  Australia  for  his  long  looked-for 
holiday  in  England,  and  there  had  been  little  to  break  the  mo- 
notony of  Helen's  existence.  She  had  clung  with  all  the  tenacity 
of  the  proverbial  drowning  man  to  the  straw,  to  the  forms  and 
dogmas  of  her  religion,  but  she  had  failed  to  slay  her  dark  ego. 
No  real  uplifting  faith  was  hers,  and  the  peace  she  craved  for  was 
as  far  off  as  erer. 

Now  that  she  was  free,  now  that  no  home  duties  tied  her  she 
would  try  conventual  life,  not  the  death  in  life  of  a  contemplative 
order,  that  she  could  not  face,  but  a  working  sisterhood  that  would 
give  employment  to  her  restle??  spirit  whilo  lifting  all  personal 
responsibility  from  her  shoulders.  Ye?,  unquestioning  obedience 
to  rules  and  ordinances  framed  by  the  saints  and  the  great  founders 


518  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

of  the  religious  life,  that  would  be  her  salvation.  That  would  make 
her  clean  and  rest  her  soul,  and  bring  her  peace.  And  so  Helen 
joined  the  community  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  and  was 
known  in  the  convent  as  Sister  Agnes. 

The  year  of  her  novitiate  passed  and  still  Helen  doubted,  but 
there  was  nothing  else,  no  other  refuge  left  for  her  to  fly  to;  it  was 
the  safest  thing  for  her  to  do,  and  so  she  made  her  vows  and  took 
the  veil. 

Day  after  day,  as  she  read  her  breviary  and  told  her  beads, 
and  fulfilled  the  tasks  allotted  to  her,  she  thought  to  herself: — 
"Yes,  I  have  surely  done  the  wisest  thing,  all  this  charity  giving! 
All  this  implicit  obedience  to  the  mandates  of  the  vicar  of  God 
on  earth,  must  be  counted  to  me  as  righteousness.  Whatever 
awaits  us  all  in  the  great  unknown  this  life  I  am  leading  will  make 
me  safe.  It  is  impossible  that  now  I  should  have  anything  to 
fear." 

And  as  time  went  on  the  devout,  patient  Sister  Agnes  came  to 
be  regarded  somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  saint. 

One  day  after  a  long  weary  round  of  visiting  the  poor,  in 
pouring  wet  and  cold,  Sister  Agnes  returned  to  the  convent  too 
tired  and  ill  to  do  anything  but  lie  down  and  rest  on  the  hard 
small  bed  in  her  cell.  When  the  bell  sounded  for  vespers  she 
tried  in  vain  to  rise  and  drag  herself  to  the  chapel,  her  limbs 
refused  to  move  and  Helen  became  aware  that  she  was  very  ill. 

Then  followed  long  days  of  acute  suffering,  patiently  borne, 
then  a  sudden  strange  easement  from  pain,  and  the  sister  who 
was  attending  her  bent  low  over  her  head  and  asked  her  if  now 
she  should  summon  Father  Bentham?  And  then  Helen  knew  that 
her  last  hour  on  earth  was  approaching,  and  a  great  terror  seized 
upon  her. 

"  How  long  have  I  to  live?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  voice  that  shook. 

"  Not  many  hours,"  replied  the  sister.  "  It  cannot  be  long  now 
before  your  sufferings  are  over,  and  you  will  taste  of  the  joys 
of  Heaven.  A  saint  like  you,  Sister  Agnes,  can  have  nothing 
to  fear." 

"  Yes,  fetch  Father  Bentham,"  whispered  Helen. 

And  now!  Now  the  moment  had  come,  and  in  a  weak,  trembling 
voice  Helen  made  full  confession  of  her  crime. 

The  priest  listened,  and  deep  down  in  his  heart  he  doubted  the 
truth  of  her  story.  "  This  saintly  woman,  in  her  self-searchings 
has  accused  herself  of  a  crime  she  could  never  have  committed. 
An  exaggerated  memory  perhaps,  of  some  error  she  had  been 
guilty  of  in  tending  the  sick  had  given  rise  to  the  whole  improb- 


THE  STORY  519 

able  fabrication;  but  a  crime!  No,  not  a  crime,  it  was  impos- 
sible," so  thought  Father  Bentham  as  he  gave  her  the  full  absolu- 
tion that  she  hungered  for,  and  administered  the  last  sacraments 
of  the  Church,  breathing  words  of  hope  and  forgiveness  in  her 
dying  ears. 

Father  Bentham  had  departed  and  all  was  quiet  in  the  cell ! 
The  sister  in  charge  settled  herself  down  to  watch  through  the 
night;  she  was  to  call  the  mother  superior  at  the  first  sign  of 
any  change  in  the  patient,  but  that  was  not  likely  to  be  just  yet, 
she  thought,  not,  probably  before  the  dawn,  and  she  crossed  herself 
and  told  her  beads. 

A  dim  lamp  burnt  before  the  crucifix  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  where  the  dying  woman  could  see  it  if  she  wished  without 
raising  her  head  from  the  pillow,  but  Helen  lay  with  her  eyes 
closed,  her  lips  still  moved  as  if  in  prayer,  and  for  the  first  few 
moments  after  the  departure  of  the  priest  she  felt  as  if  a  great 
wave  of  Peace  and  forgiveness  had  passed  over  her,  encircling  her 
in  warmth  and  light. 

And  then  a  great  horror  overtook  her,  and  she  felt  herself  sink- 
ing— sinking  away  into  utter  darkness  and  desolation  of  spirit. 
.  .  .  She  tried  to  speak,  but  her  tongue  would  not  utter,  and 
then  in  her  terror  she  recognized  the  truth!  It  was  all  of  no 
avail.  To  no  purpose  had  she  laid  bare  the  blackness  of  her 
soul.  The  talisman  had  not  worked!  She  was  alone.  Alone  in 
the  great  shadow  of  death  with  the  heavy  burden  of  her  sin  weigh- 
ing her  down  .  .  .  down  into  everlasting  night.  She  tried  to 
scream  for  help,  but  no  sound  came.  Her  dying  body  could  no 
longer  obey  the  mandates  of  her  spirit  and  she  struggled  and 
fought  in  vain.  Then  it  was  that  a  great  dazzling  light  struck 
her,  scorching  and  burning  that  dark  ego,  and  Helen  woke!  Woke 
to  grow  in  pain  and  all  the  bitterness  of  self-knowledge.  A  fierce 
burning  love  and  pity  for  her  victim  consumed  her.  And  Helen's 
soul  took  flight  in  the  great  agony  of  her  upward  growth. 

In  the  cell  all  was  quiet.  So  quiet  that  when  at  length  the 
tired  watcher  approached  the  bed  and  leant  over  the  motionless 
figure  that  lay  on  it,  she  found  that  all  was  over.  That  deep  sleep 
was  the  sleep  of  death. 

"  She  passed  away  peacefully,"  the  sister  said  to  the  mother 
superior,  "  so  peacefully  that  though  I  never  took  my  eyes  off  her 
I  was  not  aware  she  had  gone." 

"  Ah,  she  was  a  saint  indeed,"  said  the  reverend  mother,  cross- 
ing herself.  And  she  knelt  clown  by  the  bedside  to  pray. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 


AND  Eustace  John?  What  of  that  young  man's  old  age?  For 
old  age  with  the  steadily  advancing  years  had  overtaken  him. 

They  had  been  long  prosperous  happy  years  in  the  land  of  his 
adoption.  As  time  went  on  he  had  given  up  the  land  surveying, 
and  had  become  the  Editor  of  a  Melbourne  paper  which  brought 
him  in  a  comfortable  income,  though  he  was  by  no  manner  of 
means  a  millionaire.  All  went  well  with  him  and  his  devoted 
Adah  in  their  well-appointed  home;  one  great  sorrow  had  been 
theirs,  the  baby  daughter  they  had  brought  with  them  from  their 
English  home  had  not  long  survived  her  transplanting,  and  no 
other  child  had  come  to  fill  her  place. 

Now  in  the  late  Autumn  of  his  life  Eustace  John  was  to  experi- 
ence the  great  overwhelming  grief  of  parting  from  the  wife  who 
was  all  in  all  to  him. 

Suddenly,  and  without  any  note  of  warning,  as  they  sat  together 
in  their  veranda  enjoying  the  cool  evening  air  after  the  Jong  hot 
day,  Adah  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  a  sigh  and  was  gone. 

"  Heart  failure,"  said  the  doctor  summoned  with  all  possible 
haste.  "  A  most  merciful  and  happy  ending,"  he  added  in  his  well- 
meant  attempt  at  consolation. 

True  for  her  perhaps!  but  how  about  the  stunned  and  stricken 
Eustace  John  ?  The  shock  for  which  he  was  totally  unprepared  did 
not  deprive  him  of  his  reason.  Outwardly  he  bore  his  loss  with 
composure  and  apparent  resignation.  But  his  mind  had  become  to 
a  certain  extent  unhinged.  A  deep-rooted  idea  took  possession  of 
him  to  the  effect  that  now  he  was  but  a  waif  and  stray  cut  adrift 
from  all  his  moorings,  and  that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  any 
longer  to  have  a  fixed  habitation  or  home  of  his  own.  His  work, 
though  he  was  still  as  capable  as  ever  of  doing  it,  held  no  interest 
%  for  him  and  in  his  disordered  fancy  it  seemed  to  him  that  he,  the 
wa.if  and  stray,  bad  now  no  right  to  continue  it.  Was  he  not  a 
different  entity?  He  was  certainly  not  the  same  Mr.  Eustace 
Pascoe  who  successfully  edited  that  paper.  It  was  only  right 
that  he  should  go,  and  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance  from  his  friends 
he  retired  from  the  editorship,  sold  his  house,  transferred  his 

520 


THE  STOEY  521 

money  to  a  London  bank  and  decided  to  return  to  England.  He 
thought  if  he  could  only  revisit  the  old  haunts  of  his  youth  he 
might  find  his  real  self  again  and  cease  to  be  a  waif  and  stray, 
and,  above  all,  lose  that  horrible  sensation  of  drifting  away.  It 
was  always  there  just  at  the  back  of  his  brain.  Other  people 
stood  still  and  had  firm  foundations  to  their  lives,  he  had  none. 
Xo,  he  must  go;  it  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  and  he  took 
his  passage  to  Southampton. 

It  was  the  end  of  April  when  Eustace  John  embarked.  He  would 
arrive,  they  told  him,  in  time  to  taste  of  the  severities  of  an 
English  spring.  He  must  take  plenty  of  warm  clothes  with 
him  his  friends  urged  as  the  English  summer  would  strike  cold 
and  damp  after  his  long  sojourn  in  Australia. 

The  voyage  was  a  fine  one,  and  Eustace  John  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  lying  full  length  on  a  deck  chair  pretending  to 
read  and  as  far  as  possible  avoiding  intercourse  with  his  fellow- 
passengers. 

After  landing  at  Southampton  and  undergoing  the  long  weary 
formalities  of  the  custom  house  he  found  himself  at  last  steaming 
away  in  the  train  to  London,  the  London  that  he  had  not  seen 
since  he  left  it  full  of  hope  and  enthusiasm  in  the  fresh  vigour 
of  his  early  manhood.  How  small  and  grimy  the  huge  city  seemed 
to  him  now  as  he  drove  to  a  private  hotel  not  far  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Chelsea.  He  would  deposit  his  luggage  there  he 
decided,  have  some  lunch  and  after  resting  a  little,  he  would 
wander  out  and  revisit  some  of  his  old  haunts. 

Then  a  strange  impulse  came  over  him.  He  had  just  entered  his 
name  at  the  Hotel  as  Pascoe  and  secured  his  room  when  he 
suddenly  felt  that  he  dared  not  remain  there. 

He  must  first  find  that  other  pelf,  the  one  he  had  lost,  till  then 
he  had  no  right  to  the  name  of  Pascoe.  Why,  he  was  not  Eustace 
John  Pascoe  at  all,  he  was  a  waif  and  stray.  Besides  in  all  the 
bustle  of  hotel  life  he  might  meet  people,  people  who  might  ask  him 
questions!  questions  about  himself,  no,  that  woura  never  do,  he 
must  find  some  quiet  lodging,  where  he  could  remain  hidden,  and 
then  he  could  face  the  problem,  solve  it  perhaps! 

He  had  transferred  his  money  to  a  bank  in  the  Fulham  Road; 
he  would  go  there  first,  draw  out  a  sufficient  sum  to  last  him  for 
some  months;  then,  when  he  had  found  himself  he  would  know 
better  what  to  do.  Meanwhile,  he  remembered  a  little  Square 
somewhere  off  the  King's  Road,  not  far  from  The  Retreat,  yes, 
there  used  to  be  rooms  to  let  there,  that  was  the  place  to  go  to! 

Eustace  John  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  his  way  to  the  Bank, 


522  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

and  after  providing  himself  with  a  substantial  sum  of  money  set 
out  to  hunt  for  the  Square,  but  all  the  landmarks  were  gone,  and 
he  found  himself  wandering  about  among  a  lot  of  unfamiliar 
houses  built  to  meet  the  artistic  requirements  of  the  day.  The 
Retreat  had  vanished!  Ah  yes!  he  recollected  now,  it  had  been 
pulled  down  and  the  garden  built  over.  This  must  be  the  Square 
he  was  looking  for;  there  was  nothing  changed  here,  the  Square 
was  the  same  Square  he  remembered,  the  same  plane  trees  with  their 
bark  peeling  off,  behind  the  same  dingy  black  railings;  then  you 
went  down  a  street  and  came  to  the  river,  and  there  was  the 
house  that  lost  self  of  his  had  lived  in  with  Adaropposite,  that  was 
the  brass  knocker  on  the  door,  Adah  always  knew  his  knock  and 
used  to  run  downstairs  to  let  him  in.  What  had  he  done  with 
his  latch-key?  He  must  have  left  it  behind!  and  mechanically 
Eustace  John  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  Ah,  now  he  remem- 
bered, of  course  no  key  could  be  there.  It  was  not  his  house 
any  longer,  he  was  just  a  waif  and  stray  wandering  about  to  look 
for  rooms,  and  he  turned  back  into  the  square  and  rang  the  bell 
of  the  first  houses  he  came  to  with  "  apartments  to  let "  on  a  card 
in  the  window. 

On  inspection  the  rooms  would  suit  him  he  thought,  besides, 
what  did  he  care,  if  he  could  only  be  in  that  neighbourhood,  that 
was  what  he  wanted!  So  paying  a  month's  rent  in  advance  and 
giving  his  name  as  Mr.  John  Harris,  he  told  the  landlady  he 
would  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so  with  his  boxes. 

On  returning  to  the  Hotel  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  his  own 
pile  of  luggage  standing  in  the  entrance  hall  with  the  large 
printed  ship's  labels  and  the  name  "  Eustace  John  Pascoe,  pas- 
senger to  Southampton  "  staring  him  in  the  face. 

Eustace  John  stood  there  puzzled  and  perplexed  as  to  what  he 
should  do.  Clearly  he  must  first  find  that  self  he  had  lost,  till 
then  he  had  no  right  to  those  boxes.  Why,  they  were  all  labelled 
"  Pascoe  "  and  now  he  was  "  Harris  "  and  a  waif  and  stray! 

"Do  you  wish  all  the  trunks  taken  up  to  your  room,  Sir?"  in- 
quired the  porter. 

."No,  no,"  hurriedly  replied  Eustace  John,  "I  am  not  stopping 
on  here,  and  I  will  call  for  the  boxes  another  day,  let  me  have 
my  bill  please,"  and  then  he  reflected  that  he  must  take  something 
with  him,  the  landlady  at  those  lodgings  he  had  taken  would  expect 
it.  Well,  how  about  that  old  black  bag?  There  was  no  label  on 
that,  and  it  only  contained  some  old  boots  and  slippers.  That 
would  do  and  he  could  easily  buy  a  few  necessaries  on  his  way  back 
to  the  Square;  and,  as  for  the  suit  he  had  on  why  that  was  worn  and 


THE  STORY  523 

travel-stained  and  hardly  counted,  everything  else  he  could  leave 
till  he  found  that  lost  self,  then  the  things  would  really  be  his 
own  again,  and  he  could  come  back  and  claim  them.  So  Eustace 
John  settled  his  account  and  left  the  Hotel  carrying  with  him 
only  the  old  black  bag. 

Once  settled  into  his  new  quarters  he  commenced  his  daily 
wanderings  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  wished  to  find  the  exact 
spot  where  The  Retreat  had  stood  but  the  blocks  of  new  houses 
bewildered  him;  once  he  thought  he  saw  behind  some  buildings  a 
black  poplar  tree  that  struck  him  as  familiar.  It  stood  alone 
hemmed  in  with  palings  and  fences,  on  a  piece  of  land  still  to  be 
built  on.  Could  that  tree  be  one  of  the  poplars  with  the  rustling 
leaves  that  grew  at  the  end  of  the  garden  ?  Then  what  had  become 
of  the  two  big  mulberry  trees,  and  the  fig  tree?  All  gone!  all  gone! 
Oh,  if  only  he  could  get  nearer  to  that  poplar  tree!  if  only  he 
could  hear  the  rustle  of  its  leaves,  that  might  help  him,  but  he 
could  not,  it  was  hopeless  it  was  much  too  far  off,  and  Eustace 
John  retraced  his  dejected  steps  back  to  his  lodgings.  Anyhow,  that 
Square  was  the  same,  nothing  had  changed  there,  it  retained  its 
pristine  squalor,  even  his  landlady  belonged  to  the  type  of  land- 
lady indigenous  to  Chelsea.  He  seemed  to  know  it  all  so  well! 
Was  it  a  dream?  He  could  not  tell,  but  he  fancied  he  had  once 
knocked  at  pretty  well  all  the  doors  in  this  very  square  in  search 
of  a  model  of  a  fair-haired  girl  who  had  left  him  in  the  lurch  with 
a  drawing  unfinished,  but  that  must  surely  have  been  when  he  was 
himself!  How  he  longed  to  overtake  that  lost  self  but  it  always 
eluded  him !  He  must  be  patient  and  still  go  on  hunting,  he  could 
never  give  it  up !  But  as  time  went  on  that  self  he  was  so  anxious 
to  recover  seemed  to  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer  and  he  wandered 
aimlessly  about  day  after  day  till  even  the  memory  of  the  thing  he 
was  seeking  for  faded,  and  he'  became  in  truth  a  waif  and  stray 
drifting  he  knew  not  whither. 

The  dreariness  of  the  climate  though  he  was  not  aware  of  it, 
did  much  to  increase  his  malady.  There  were  a  few  warm  days 
that  summer  when  the  inhabitants  of  the  Square  groaned  aloud  and 
lamented  the  tropical  heat  of  London.  Then  back  again  to  cold 
and  pouring  rain,  the  exceptional  nature  of  which,  if  the  natives 
were  to  be  believed,  was  entirely  phenomenal  and  unprecedented. 

Poor  Eustace  John  shivered  through  the  few  short  months  of 
so-called  summer,  he  was  feeling  very  tired  and  weak,  and  as  the 
days  shortened  into  autumn,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  sitting  by 
the  window  watching,  watching  for  something  to  come,  something 
to  happen,  he  did  not  know  what!! 


524  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

He  began  to  fear  that  his  money  would  not  last  him  much 
longer,  he  knew  he  had  plenty  more  at  that  Bank  in  the  Fulham 
Road,  but  there  was  some  reason  why  it  was  impossible  he  should 
get  at  it,  some  reason  connected  with  that  self  he  had  lost.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  gather  up  the  broken  threads  of  his  memory  and  un- 
ravel them,  he  was  lost,  quite  lost,  nothing  but  a  mere  waif  and 
stray ! 

One  day  early  in  December  he  felt  too  ill  to  go  out  and  get  his 
lunch  as  usual  at  the  little  restaurant  on  the  embankment,  so  he 
•went  without  it.  When  dinner  time  came  he  felt  much  worse 
and  instead  of  going  out  for  his  dinner  he  went  to  bed,  it  was  no 
use,  he  could  not  face  that  freezing  December  night ! 

The  next  morning  he  was  too  ill  to  get  up,  and  his  landlady 
was  urgent  that  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for;  Eustace  John  raised 
no  objection,  only  remarking  feebly  that  all  he  really  needed  was 
to  be  left  quiet.  The  local  G.  P.  was  accordingly  sent  for  with 
the  result  that  he  pronounced  him  to  be  suffering  from  pleurisy, 
•with  possible  complications,  and  recommended  his  prompt  re- 
moval to  the  Chelsea  Infirmary.  He  understood  the  patient  had  no 
friends  or  belongings,  and  it  was  impossible  he  should  receive 
the  care  his  critical  condition  needed  where  he  was. 

Eustace  John  rather  welcomed  the  idea,  so  the  doctor  made  all 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  ambulance  to  fetch  him  away 
without  loss  of  time,  and  before  mid-day  the  old  man  found  him- 
self lying  in  the  ward  at  the  Infirmary  with  a  nurse  endeavouring 
to  prop  him  up  with  pillows  to  ease  the  pain  he  experienced  in 
breathing. 

For  many  weeks  Eustace  John  lay  hovering  between  life  and 
<leath,  and  when  at  last  he  was  pronounced  out  of  immediate 
danger,  it  was  only  to  find  himself  a  confirmed  invalid  with  the 
sands  of  life  slowly  but  surely  running  out. 

"  He  might  live  a  year  or  more,"  the  doctor  said,  "  or  he  might 
fro  off  any  moment.  The  state  of  his  heart  was  critical  and  it  was 
just  a  chance,  it  might  go  either  way." 

And  his  mental  condition  ?  How  had  this  long  fight  of  his 
tired  worn  body  with  death  affected  that?  It  had  not  changed,  he 
was  still  the  waif  and  stray  with  a  consciousness  of  a  lost  self  that 
he  tried  in  vain  to  reach  out  and  grasp,  but  that  invariably  eluded 
him. 

And  the  strange  thing  was  that  in  all  this  weary  time  of  pain 
and  suffering,  he  never  once  thought  of,  indeed  hardly  seemed  to 
remember,  that  beloved  wife  whose  sudden  death  had  been  the 
source  and  origin  of  all  his  trouble. 


THE  STORY  525 

As  the  days  grew  warmer  they  placed  him  on  a  couch  near  the 
window  where  he  could  enjoy  the  air  and  sunshine,  and  as  his 
bodily  frame  became  weaker,  a  sort  of  soothing  sensation  came  over 
him,  and  he  seemed  as  he  lay  in  a  half-dozing  condition,  to  be 
conscious  of  a  girl,  a  girl  who  was  somehow  very  dear  to  him. 
She  appeared  to  emerge  in  a  shadowy  way  from  a  great  blank 
space  that  he  could  not  account  for.  When  he  tried  to  conjure 
her  up,  she  did  not  come.  He  could  only  watch  and  wait,  and  long 
for  her. 

One  night  as  he  lay  in  the  dimly  lighted  ward,  listening  to  the 
heavy  breathing  of  the  patient  in  the  next  bed,  he  fancied  that 
that  girl's  face  that  he  seemed  to  know  so  well,  bent  over  him 
and  two  most  beautiful  hands  were  pressed  gently  on  his  forehead, 
and  then  he  slept,  such  a  sweet  sound  deep  sleep. 

"  Milk  my  cows,  Judy.  Milk  my  cows,  Judy."  What  was  that? 
It  woke  him  with  a  start.  Why,  a  wood  pigeon  of  course.  They 
had  such  a  lot  of  them  at  The  Retreat,  and  Gracey  always  declared 
that  was  what  they  said!  One  got  down  the  chimney  once  and  he 
and  Cooky  got  it  out.  How  black  it  was  to  be  sure!  And  how 
they  laughed  as  it  flew  about  the  room  scattering  the  soot  over 
everything,  and  Jemima  was  so  cross,  because  of  the  new  chintz  on 
the  sofa. 

There  it  goes  again!  And  the  wood  pigeon  outside  the  window 
of  the  Infirmary  repeated  its  song  of  "  Milk  my  cows,  Judy  "  and 
Eustace  John  listened  again,  and  as  he  listened  he  awoke  to  the 
memory  of  his  past,  and  the  full  possession  of  his  present.  All 
was  clear  to  him,  that  trouble  in  his  brain  had  vanished  and  his 
lost  self  was  found. 

He  lay  quite  still  with  a  sort  of  strange  happiness  stealing  over 
him;  he  understood  it  all  now,  and  that  dreadful  feeling  at  the 
back  of  his  head  was  gone,  quite  gone!  But,  oh  horror  of  horrors, 
supposing  this  was  only  a  lull,  a  lull  before  some  mental  storm 
that  would  return  with  perhaps  greater  violence  than  he  had  yet 
experienced  ? 

Well,  if  so  let  him  enjoy  the  oasis  in  the  wilderness  while  he 
could,  and  Eustace  John  resolutely  thrust  his  fears  from  him. 
What  should  he  do?  He  was  not  a  pauper!  Had  he  any  right 
to  remain  in  the  Infirmary  now?  Then  he  thought  now  dreary  it 
would  he  for  him  to  leave  it.  There  was  Sister  Dora  and  Xurse 
Aveling,  how  kind  they  had  been  to  him,  then  there  was  that  man 
in  the  next  bed,  the  one  who  had  been  a  cabman,  such  a  nice  fellow, 


526  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

no  he  did  not  want  to  go  away  and  leave  them  all.  They  were  his 
friends.  True  he  had  a  sister  still  living  and  a  lot  of  nephews  and 
nieces,  but  he  had  never  had  anything  in  common  with  Ellen,  and 
she  lived  a  long  way  off,  up  in  the  north.  As  for  the  nephews 
and  nieces,  why,  he  did  not  know  them,  they  would  probably 
regard  an  old  invalid  uncle  in  the  light  of  a  terrible  infliction, 
No,  the  nurses  and  the  patients  in  the  Infirmary  were  his  friends 
and  he  would  stay  with  them.  He  might  offer  to  pay,  but  then 
that  would  spoil  it  all,  besides,  he  did  not  know  if  such  an  arrange- 
ment would  be  possible.  In  a  hospital  yes,  but  surely  not  in  an 
Infirmary.  Ah,  he  had  it!  he  would  make  his  will,  and  then 
after  his  death  none  of  his  friends  should  be  the  loser  by  his 
sojourn  amongst  them.  His  friend  Turner  the  clergyman  would 
help  him  with  that.  Meanwhile  he  would  ask  the  Matron  to  give 
him  writing  materials.  Now  that  he  had  found  his  past,  he  was 
not  going  to  let  it  slip  again,  he  would  write  down  all  he  could 
remember  from  the  very  beginning,  just  for  his  own  satisfaction, 
and  in  order  to  be  sure  of  retaining  it.  It  could  be  burnt  after 
his  death,  or  stay,  he  would  leave  it  for  Turner  to  read;  he  liked 
that  man,  and  would  trust  him  to  make  the  right  use  of  any 
confidences  he  might  place  in  him.  But  that  would  not  be  yet 
awhile,  for  the  present  he  would  remain  the  same  John  Harris, 
who  entered  the  Infirmary,  now  four  months  ago.  And  he  turned 
over  on  his  other  side  to  sleep  and  the  cooing  of  the  wood  pigeon 
mingled  with  his  dreams. 

"  Harris  seems  much  brighter  today,"  remarked  Sister  Dora 
to  the  Matron  when  some  hours  later  she  came  into  the  ward. 
"  He  is  asking  for  writing  materials,  it  would  give  him  something 
to  do  so  he  says." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  all  through  the  Summer  days  Eustace 
John  lay  by  the  open  window  writing  the  story  of  his  past  life. 

"What  are  you  so  busy  with,  Harris?"  inquired  the  Rev. 
Cuthbert  Turner  as  he  came  to  pay  him  one  of  his  frequent  visits, 
for  the  old  man  interested  him  and  he  felt  curious  about  his  past 
history. 

"  You  shall  see  it  all  one  day,  Turner,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  must 
finish  it  first." 

The  summer  merged  into  autumn  and  as  the  days  closed  in 
Eustace  John  became  visibly  weaker.  His  writing  was  an  unfail- 
ing source  of  interest  to  him,  but  now  with  the  near  approach  of 
winter  he  began  to  fear  he  might  not  live  to  finish  it.  After  all 
did  it  matter  much  ?  He  was  writing  it  purely  for  his  own  delecta- 
tion, and  in  that  great  hereafter  to  which  he  was  tending,  who 


THE  STORY  527 

knows  but  that  all  his  life  with  its  failures  and  many  shortcomings 
would  not  be  spread  out  before  him  like  a  map  traced  by  the 
unerring  finger  of  the  recording  angel.  If  so,  why  make  any  undue 
effort  to  tell  his  own  tale,  he  was  very  tired,  he  would  rest,  and 
that  afternoon  instead  of  writing  he  slept. 

The  next  day  he  felt  rather  better  and  the  thought  of  his  still 
unwritten  will  recurred  to  him,  "  Yes,  that  he  must  see  to,"  and 
when  the  Matron  next  came  round  the  ward  he  inquired  of  her 
when  Mr.  Turner  was  likely  to  come  again  to  see  him. 

"  I  think,  he  said  he  was  going  away  for  a  few  days,"  she  re- 
plied, "  did  you  want  specially  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  when  he  comes,"  said  Eustace  John,  and  he 
sank  back  into  a  doze. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  come  today?"  asked  Eustace  John  of 
one  of  the  nurses,  the  following  afternoon. 

"Who?  the  doctor!" 

"  No,  Mr.  Turner,  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  him  before  it  is  too 
late." 

"  Matron  sent  a  note  round  yesterday  to  ask  if  he  was  back," 
replied  the  nurse,  "  they  said  they  were  expecting  him  home  al- 
most directly,  and  that  he  would  be  sure  to  come  as  soon  as  he 
could." 

That  night  Eustace  John  was  much  worse.  "  I  doubt  his  living 
through  the  night,"  said  the  doctor,  and  he  ordered  him  a  stimu- 
lant. 

The  stimulant  revived  him  considerably  and  he  again  asked  for 
Mr.  Turner. 

"  Was  there  any  chance  of  his  coming  that  night?  You  see,"  he 
added,  ."  I  may  be  gone  by  the  morning." 

"  He  is  sure  to  come  and  see  you  as  soon  as  he  gets  back,"  re- 
plied the  nurse,  "but  I  can  easily  send  for  the  chaplain  if  it  is 
that  you  want,"  and  the  nurse  glanced  mechanically  at  the  card 
hung  on  the  wall  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

Name,  John  Harris. 

Age,  70. 

Disease,  cardiac  affection. 

Address  of  friends,  none  known. 

"  Oh  no,  no,  it  is  Turner  I  want  to  see,"  said  Eustace  John 
with  more  energy  than  the  nurse  had  believed  him  capable  of. 

"Is  there  any  message  you  would  like  to  leave?  I  mean  in  case 
he  does  not  come,  anything  you  would  like  me  to  tell  him? " 

"Yes,  those  papers!  My  recollections!  Give  them  to  him!  I 
wish  to  be  buried  .  .  .  not  as  Harris  .  .  .  my  own  name 


528  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

.  .  .  Pascoe  ...  he  will  find  it  all  there."  And  the  eyes  of 
the  dying  man  closed  and  he  lay  quite  quiet  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  roused  himself  again  and  speaking  with  difficulty  said: — 

"  Paper  .  .  .  give  me  something  to  write  with  .  .  .  my  will 
...  I  want  to  write.  Turner  could  have  done  it.  Let  me  try !  " 

"  Shall  I  try  and  do  it  for  you,"  said  the  nurse,  and  the  tone 
of  her  voice  showed  that  she  believed  herself  to  be  humouring 
the  feverish  fancies  of  the  dying  man.  But  Eustace  John  could 
not  be  put  off  like  that;  he  made  a  supreme  effort  and  half -raising 
himself  in  bed,  asked  her  "  for  the  love  of  God  to  give  him  pen  and 
paper." 

The  nurse  startled  and  awed  by  his  manner,  hurriedly  went  to 
the  locker  at  the  side  of  the  bed  and  taking  out  a  writing  pad 
placed  it  before  him. 

"  Give    me    ...    pen    .    .    .  ink "...    but   this    time    the 
voice  was  barely  audible. 

The  nurse  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand, 
he  gripped  it  for  one  moment,  then  his  dying  fingers  relaxed  their 
hold,  his  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  Eustace  John  had  passed 
iuto  the  great  unknown. 


THE  E.\D 


DATE  DUE 


CAYLORO 


'MINTED  IN  U.S.  ». 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


V 

III! 


A     000  822  550     0 


